


Summer Sons

by Diglossia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Chronic Illness, Consensual Violence, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Referenced Sexual Violence, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide, Violence, the dream pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:32:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 32
Words: 76,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5889397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diglossia/pseuds/Diglossia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henrietta has so very many secrets. Only a fool would think any one person could know them all.</p><p>An AU in which the Gray Man acts like an actual hitman and the Dream Pack becomes increasingly involved in Ronan Lynch's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I sleep, but my heart wakes: it is the voice of my beloved that knocks, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.  
> -SONG OF SOLOMON 5:2

Ronan's pumping gas when a non-descript economy car pulls up behind him. It’s late and dark, the gas station poorly lit. Still, the car shouldn’t be cause for concern. Except there's something odd about the man climbing out of the driver's side.

He's- there's no other word for it- gray. His clothes, his skin, even his hair.

"Ronan Lynch?" the man asks. Even his voice is gray.

"Who's asking?"

The man smiles politely. Predatorily.

"I am," he says.

Chainsaw croaks. Her feathers are fluffed up. Ronan reaches a hand up to stroke her back and places the nozzle back on the holder with the other.

He's conscious of two things: one, he has never met this man before in his life; and two, Al's Corner Quik Mart, while an excellent place to get gas afterhours, has no security cameras.

Ronan Lynch is going to have to fight his way out of this.

He sets his stance, waiting for the man to come closer.

He's expecting a blow. The man kicks his legs out from under him, grabs Ronan by the waist, and slams him into the gasoline-spattered pavement. Ronan opens his mouth, a curse on his tongue, and immediately has something shoved inside. It tastes like a dirty sock.

"Your cooperation," the gray voice says quietly, "is much appreciated."

Then Ronan is blindfolded and shoved in the trunk of a car that isn't his.


	2. Chapter 2

“The fuck is that?” Jiang asks.

Proko, draped over Jiang and using his shoulder as a headrest, looks up blearily. Jiang doesn't expect a coherent response from him. Proko's still recovering from last night.

K wanted to celebrate the upcoming end of the school year. They'll celebrate again once it's over but, fuck, any excuse to party, right? Proko, in typical fashion, spent a good half hour puking his guts up.

Jiang pats his hair consolingly. Their Proko's a bit of a lightweight.

The party hadn’t ended by the time the six of them got to this part of Henrietta, so they’re hitting Aglionby bright and early. Jiang would rather be asleep in his bed, but Kavinsky’s up and when Kavinsky’s up, they’re all up.

So now they’re out in the parking lot, leaning against Rasmussen’s Challenger and indolently staring at anyone who dares to look their way. You gotta spend hump day somehow.

“The fuck is what?” Rasmussen groans from behind his aviators. Rasmussen would also prefer to be asleep in his bed. 

Jiang points.

Ronan Lynch, aka Dick Gansey’s righthand man and heavy, has a bird on his arm. A fucking big-ass black bird. Jiang thinks it might be a magpie, but he is definitely not the person to ask about local fauna.

“A crow,” Kavinsky says, blatantly ogling Lynch.

“Raven,” Swan corrects. He’s not interested in Lynch’s avian companion. He’s watching Skov, who’s currently giving Tad Carruthers the middle finger. Carruthers is getting out of his Silverado with its mud-spattered wheel wells and yellow  _Don’t Tread On Me_  plates. He’s way too goddamn happy for seven a.m. He hasn’t noticed Skov.

“What’s he doing with it?” Jiang asks.

“Fuck if I know.”

Proko grumbles, wanting them to change the subject.

Lynch-watching is Kavinsky’s newest favorite activity. Proko’s pretty miffed about it. The rest of them figure Lynch isn’t so hard on the eyes and they’d like to kick his ass or race him again so, fuck it, Lynch-watching it is.

It’s incredibly faggy. None of them are going to say shit about it, though. Kavinsky likes girls and Kavinsky likes boys, and right now Kavinsky likes Lynch. It’s not up for discussion. Kavinsky doesn’t police their hookups, and they don’t say shit about his fixations. If Kavinsky wants to watch Lynch, they’re going to watch him do it.

It’s not like it's heinously boring or anything. Lynch is a pretty cool guy. If it weren’t for Dick Gansey, he’d probably hang with them.

Jiang squints across the quad at Lynch and his bird. 

Lynch has a perpetual scowl, a shaved head, and these fucked up scars on his wrists from a botched suicide attempt. He’s also got a foul mouth, a fantastic right hook, and a BMW Jiang can’t sneer at. Right now, he’s alone, which is why they’re staring and not engaging. Half the fun of Ronan Lynch is making Dick Gansey fume.

Jiang knocks back the last of his Monster. It’s his second this morning. He’s starting to get a little turned on by the amount of caffeine running through his veins.

Swan’s got this theory that suicide attempt is when Kavinsky’s hateboner started. Proko and Skov don't disagree, which makes Jiang think Swan’s right.

Lynch’s bird flies off. Jiang’s pretty sure he was talking to it for a minute there.

Lynch, his tie hanging loose around his neck, throws his jacket over his shoulder and stomps towards Welch Hall. Jiang can appreciate Lynch's disdain for the school uniform. It hasn't changed since the sixties.

Outside of school, Lynch prefers to wear black wifebeaters. Not exactly flashy, except they show off bits and pieces of his massive back tattoo. No one can tell what it’s supposed to be. Rumor has it a plastered Lynch handed the tattoo artist nine hundred dollars and told them to have at it. Nine hundred dollars for some lines on his back he doesn’t even show off. There are worse ways to spend pocket change.

Jiang turns to Swan to comment on that and stops.

Swan’s not watching Lynch. He’s scowling at Skov’s calves.

Jiang snorts. He crushes his can and tosses it behind him, ignoring Rasmussen’s yelp when it glances off the Challenger’s hood.

Today’s gonna be a good day.

 

* * *

 

Ronan sees them looking. 

Anyone would. It's more than a little suspicious that Kavinsky and his pack of dogs are all present for morning classes and Jiang is looking right at him. If their association didn’t begin and end with artificially lit streets, Ronan might have something to say about that. Since it does, Ronan glares and walks on.

Ronan shoos Chainsaw off. He doesn't make the connection they might be staring at her because Ronan Lynch is many things but perceptive is not one of them.

He smacks into Henry Cheng, who’s standing in the middle of the quad scowling at Prokopenko of all people. Cheng demands an apology. Ronan glares at him. Cheng calls him a waste of an education. Ronan calls him a self-important shitbird.

This is how you start A+ friendships, right here.

He passes Declan in the halls. They don't acknowledge each other. 

When school ends in a week and a half, the older two Lynch brothers won't see each other outside of church. Come fall, Declan might not even be up for the drive. Then they'll only have to share a pew during major holidays. Ronan is looking forward to it.

He slides into Civics with minutes to spare. Adam and Gansey would be so proud. Look at Ronan, acting like an actual student who cares.

He spends the rest of the period adorning his and Feinstein's desks with fat, veiny dicks.

 

* * *

 

 

It's pouring outside. Adam is tired and drenched. His bike's front tire flattens against the ground with every spin. These are the excuses he has for agreeing to stash it in the back and climb inside Blake Skovron's parents' SUV.

He regrets it pretty much immediately.

There's an immediate flash of foreboding saying  _this is a bad idea, Adam_ , that only gets ratcheted up when he realizes the car already has three other occupants. Swan glances at Adam diffidently from the front passenger seat. Jiang and Prokopenko have the back. Prokopenko's passed out, his head lolling against Jiang's shoulder. Adam isn't charitable enough to believe it's from exhaustion. He's certainly breathing and Jiang seems unconcerned, but Adam can't imagine what he has to be tired about at 2:30 in the afternoon.

“Little wet out there, isn’t it?” Skov asks gamely. He has the face of a bruiser and the wardrobe of an entire frat house. He's the sort of kid everyone's friends with but no one actually likes. It's a cultivated look. Goodness knows why anyone would want it but Skov does.

“A little,” Adam responds because it’s polite.

“Where you headed?”

Adam gives him Monmouth’s address. He’ll wait out the rain there. It will be worth Skov not knowing where he lives.

“You’re not heading home? I thought you lived out by the trailer park.”

Adam’s face burns. “Not anymore.”

“You get your own place? I can dig that.”

Adam gives a response that’s more muscle memory than actual thought. He can see Jiang and Swan studying him.  _Bad idea._

There's an open can of Coors Light in the cup holder. Jesus Christ.

Swan, who reeks of Ketel One and Dior Homme, switches the radio to a scratchy Spanish station. He raps his fingers on the windowsill in time to the beat and hums along quietly.

Skov takes his eyes off the road to look at Adam and smirks. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Parrish: your face pisses Swan off."

"What doesn't?" Adam asks.

Skov laughs like this is the funniest thing. He turns in his seat to clap Adam on the shoulder. Adam resists the urge to shove his hand off.

"True, true. So, Parrish, tell me: what's Lynch's deal?"

The radio clicks off.

"What?" 

The sad part is Adam is actually relieved. Kavinsky’s goons want something. They didn't pick him up just to mess with him.

"Is he…y'know?" Jiang asks.

And okay, wow, Adam did not expect three phenomenally rich, perpetually buzzed teenagers to be interested in whether Ronan Lynch was  _gay_.

"I don't see how that's any of my business."

Jiang looks frustrated at that answer. Swan continues to look monumentally bored.

"Has he ever done anything?" Jiang asks. "Anything weird?"

Wonderful. They’re homophobes. What, are they looking for an excuse why none of them can beat Ronan in a race? Adam knows about that. It’s half the reason he knows these losers’ names.

His eyes flick to the window. The rain’s slowing down. Maybe he can get them to let him out at the next intersection.

"What about that brother of his?"

"Declan?"

"Matthew," Skov and Jiang say at the same time.

Adam knows next to nothing about Matthew. He and Ronan get along better than Ronan and Declan but Ronan gets along better with everyone than he does Declan so that's not saying much.

"Matthew's straight."

Swan nods, like this isn't news to him. What's going on?

Adam's eyes pass over the four of them. Skov doesn't seem particularly interested in the conversation, Jiang wants something, and Swan's a mystery. Prokopenko's still down for the count. Adam doesn't know what they want him to say. Ronan's sexuality isn't something he spends a whole lot of time thinking about.

"This is his stop," Swan murmurs when they've almost missed the turn. Skov taps the brakes too hard and jerks the wheel to pull into Monmouth's lot.

"You can let me out here," Adam says, fingers already working at the door handle.

"That's okay. We'll drop you off at the door." Skov smiles, making Adam's stomach twist unpleasantly.

The last fifty yards pass in tense silence. When the SUV stops, Adam is already out of his seat, ready to  _get out_  of there and away from Kavinsky's henchmen. He wants to be on the second floor of Monmouth, surrounded by the smell of mint leaves and unwashed clothes. Gansey's up there, waiting for him. He'll smile genuinely when Adam gets inside and they'll talk about Glendower, not whatever this little show is.

"Hey," Skov says, grabbing Adam's arm as he heads out the door. It's one of Skov's strange moments of clarity, when the frat boy fades away and it almost seems like someone else is looking out of his blue eyes. "This town, it does something to people. Makes them  _different_."

If there is one thing Adam never expected to hear, it’s someone saying his hometown makes people gay.

"Thanks for the ride," he says, pulling his arm away. "Can you pop the trunk?"

It's only later, at the trailer factory, that it occurs to Adam they might have been talking about something else altogether.

 

* * *

 

 

"You were right," Swan says, peering up at the second floor of Dick Gansey's building. "It happened here."

Because he knows it will irritate Swan, Skov doesn't acknowledge his words. Skov's been right twice today, first about the path Parrish would take to get home and now this.

"Did you get a look at the roommate?" he asks.

Swan's been too interested in the roommate for ages, stares at him every chance he gets. Jiang pities the kid. Swan isn't creepy but he's sure as hell unsettling.

Jiang doesn't know the roommate. They've never shared any classes. He mostly hangs with Gansey and his, which is so not Jiang's scene. Briefly, Jiang wonders if he's even allowed to talk to Gansey or Parrish. He scratches that thought. K owns him. He doesn't  _control_  him.

"No," Swan says. "But there's something peculiar about him." Peculiar is Swan's way of saying Gansey's and Lynch's roommate is one of  _them_ , the people Swan can't seem to avoid. Jiang hasn't decided yet whether he's right. If he could just remember what the roommate's face looks like...but it's gone, slipped his mind. Oh, well.

They’re not here for the roommate.

After the substance party, Swan pulled Proko aside and told him there were two this time, buried in the woods where no one would think to find them. No one ever looks in Henrietta's woods, which is likely for the best. They're crawling with corpses.

"Repeat offender?" Skov’s talking about whoever offed two guys in this warehouse of an apartment building. Seriously, who looks at a dilapidated warehouse and says, that would make a great set of condos? Dick fucking Gansey, people.

Swan sucks on his teeth. "Yeah. Not a local, though." He glances at Skov. They exchange a quick, silent conversation, one that's mostly  _fuck you_ s and  _you know I'm right_ s with bits of angry posturing in between. 

Jiang doesn't bother to decipher it. Proko's waking up. That is far and away the most interesting thing going on in this car right now.

Jiang pushes him off his shoulder gently. Proko only sleeps this way when Kavinsky's not around, just kind of slumps over, like his strings have been cut. He can't be woken up for anything when he's like this. It plucks at Jiang's anxiety, the thought niggling at him  _what if he doesn't wake up this time?_

It's a baseless fear. Proko always wakes up.

"They're hiding something," Skov says, dragging Jiang back into the conversation.

Jiang rolls his eyes, because of course they are. Everyone in this backwards-ass town is hiding something.

"The roommate?" Proko asks, rubbing his eyes with his fist. He can be unexpectedly endearing when he first wakes up. He reminds Jiang of his younger half-brother, back when they were still close, before Jiang's existence became an open secret.

"More than that," Swan says tersely.

More than Lynch, too, then.

Proko's phone goes off, a series of texts from Kavinsky. No one texts Proko outside of them. More than anyone else, Proko is Kavinsky's and not many people want to chance setting Kavinsky off.

"What's he want?" Skov, pleasant as ever.

"His mom's ranting about someone being in their house?" Proko says, the words coming out as a question. Mrs. Kavinsky is not known for her firm grip on reality. "He wants Swan to check it out. Anyone come into town lately?" This is directed at Skov. Proko glances up from his phone.

"Fuck if I know," Skov says.

Skov and Swan share another silent argument. Most likely, Skov knows something and Swan suspects, and neither wants to admit anything in front of Proko. Jiang can keep a secret. Proko can’t.

They break eye contact. Skov looks back at the road. Swan crosses his arms over his chest and looks out the window.

Swan grits his teeth. A muscle in his jaw bulges. "I don't like this."

"You don't like anything," Proko says. He smiles. It's small, meant only for Jiang. 

Jiang smiles back.

They head to Kavinsky's house.

 

* * *

 

 

"It's him," Swan says. "Same guy who was at Lynch's place."

Jiang is fighting to keep his eyes open. Kavinsky glances at him before looking away dismissively. Proko tosses him a pill bottle. It's orange with a white cap, official looking except for the label. It’s gibberish, not even English. Jiang unscrews the cap and swallows one pill dry, chasing it with the beer Proko offers him. He screws the cap back on and pockets the bottle.

"You're sure?"

Swan scowls. "Positive."

"What do you want us to do, capo?"

Kavinsky drums his fingers against his chin. He just did a line and is waiting for it to fully kick in. Jiang wonders whether Proko would lick the residue from under Kavinsky's nose if Kavinsky let him.

He tears his eyes away.

Skov's playing with one of Kavinsky's impossible things, a levitating metal ball that glows red hot every time Skov gets close to touching it.

"You say this guy's killed before?" Kavinsky asks.

"At least three," Skov answers. "Definitely more." He's keeping something hidden. Kavinsky's caught on. He must not think it's important enough to demand an explanation yet.

Proko chews on his lip thoughtfully.

"What do you want us to do?" Skov asks again. Out of all of them, he has the least fear of Kavinsky. It's not necessarily a good or even smart quality, just goes hand in hand with being a compete shitstain of a human being. "Find him?"

Kavinsky considers this.

“Soon. We’ll wait till he becomes more than just a nuisance.” 


	3. Chapter 3

In June, a man came to Henrietta. He had no name, only a moniker.

Tanner O'Leary was the first at Aglionby to notice him. Tanner stayed at the dorms over the summer. His mother didn't like it and called constantly, leaving voice messages asking when he'd be home. Tanner didn't care. He preferred to abstain from his mother's company whenever possible.

Staying the summer was not as bad as it sounded. A lot of pupils did, some even for better reasons than his own. It was hot and humid but a drive down the motorway would take you to some cities with substance, like Charlottesville and Williamsburg. There weren't any classes to concern yourself with or petty grievances with some of the more disagreeable classmates. Some of the local girls were amenable.

Today had been slow, though, and the Wi-Fi was on the fritz, which left only people-watching for activities. Also not as bad as it sounded.

Lars Wentworth couldn't be arsed to remember his passcode, so the door to the dorm across the way was propped open when the stranger came by.

Blowing cigarette smoke out his window so he didn't get another infraction, Tanner watched the man go in. He watched the man come out.

He didn't tell anyone what he saw.

 

* * *

 

Declan Lynch is rarely alone. This is entirely by design: he is a social creature, best in a crowd.

Right then, he was alone. It wasn't true solitude- he was on the way to a friend's- but it was enough to remind him there are things he would rather forget.

A door opened and Declan's jaw set in a hard line.

Joseph Kavinsky sauntered out of  _Fortitude_ , Danylo Prokopenko's room. High as a kite as usual but drugs were never Declan's problem with him. They’ve passed each other plenty of times before. Declan has to go this way to get to his dorm room. Kavinsky spends more time in Prokopenko’s room than his own home.

"Woah," Kavinsky said, spotting him. His eyes, perpetually at half-mast, passed over Declan’s body in a way that was lewdly appraising. A wide grin spread across his full lips. "Let me guess. Secret fight club?"

"Fight Club is inherently secretive," Declan snapped. "Also, shut up."

Kavinsky raised his hands, his grin spreading.

Declan grew up with dreamers and dreams. It's nothing for him to recognize another set.

He suspected Kavinsky from the start, the lazy smiles and the way of looking at the world like it was waiting to be molded and discarded. Then Declan heard about Kavinsky's pet, how he came back different. Calmer, more biddable. Like he'd been broken in somehow.

Declan couldn't sleep for days after meeting the new Prokopenko. The passivity reminded him of Matthew and Ronan's mother. His father had been in the ground for months, Aurora consigned to a perpetual sleep, when he ran into this trainwreck's toy. It was too much.

"Stay away from Ronan," he said. It was pointless, but it was something he had to say. Declan knew he was a terrible older brother. Look what he had to work with.

"Now why would I do that?" Kavinsky drawled.

He was trash who'd never have amounted to anything if he hadn't won the genetic lottery. Declan might as well be looking at a younger version of his father. 

Someone needed to do this kid in before he became the next Niall Lynch.

It had been a long time since Declan loved his father.

_ How does it feel, fucking your own creations? Do you feel like a god? Do you even care about the lives you're destroying? _

Kavinsky raised an eyebrow, like he knew what Declan was thinking.

"Take care of that brother of yours," he said. It sounded like a threat.

"Which one?" Declan asked, his voice tinged with the tiniest drop of fear. Someone out there was looking for the Greywaren. It wasn't as scary as the thought that Ronan might actually get involved with this boy.

"Matthew, of course. Why would Ronan need you to take care of him?"

Kavinsky walked past him, leaving a trail of marijuana smoke in his wake.

For some reason, Declan thought he meant to finish that statement with "he has me".


	4. Chapter 4

Ever since he gave Adam a ride home, Skov has been under the impression they're more than just passing acquaintances. This despite them having only ever shared one class together and never talking.

Skov has taken to finding Adam on his daily route. He calls out to Adam just to say hello and irritate him. His Cupid’s bow mouth is frozen in a perpetual smirk, like the whole world amuses him. 

It probably does.

Adam is biking past the neighborhood park, not wanting to waste gas when Boyd's is right there, when he spots Skov. He ducks his head and grips his handlebars tighter, hoping Skov won't see him.

Skov calls out to him. He's sitting on top of the jungle gym, spinning a rugby ball in his hands. He could have been a jock in another life, maybe would have been if he hadn't gotten mixed up with Kavinsky and his gang.

“If it isn’t the unknowable Adam,” Skov says when Adam gives in and acknowledges him.

Adam freezes at the word choice, then relaxes marginally. This is how Skov gets to people. He says things, makes good guesses that cut to the core.

That’s the common consensus. It doesn’t mean it’s the truth.

Skov isn’t stupid. Adam doesn’t know his background, only that he’s the kind of kid who knows things. Every so often, his asshole, devil-may-care attitude slips and there’s a glimpse of something else.  _Someone_  else. 

Someone far more serious and vastly more intelligent, who doesn’t need technology to see right through you. The kind of kid for whom being normal stopped being an option long ago.

It’s not a nice thought, but there’s nothing  _nice_ about Skov.

“What do you want?” Adam asks tiredly.

“Aren’t you just a spot of sunshine this morning,” Skov says. He tosses the rugby ball up in the air and catches it, grinning as if it's some sort of accomplishment.

Adam’s eyes flick to Swan, Skov’s fickle companion. Swan's sitting at the bottom of the slide. He looks as spiteful as ever. Ronan claims he’s a better driver than Kavinsky and a genius at never getting caught.

Adam can’t attest to that. It’s probably for the best. If the rumors are to be believed, Swan should have had his license suspended ten times over, if not for the speeding, then for the drinking. That Adam knows firsthand. At school, Swan drinks vodka like its water, ignores the professors, and generally spends all his time staring out the window or watching Skov carve obscenities into the desks. More than the rest of Kavinsky’s gang, Aglionby’s halls have never seen Swan sober.

In short, he’s a complete mess. But he’s a tolerable one.

Unlike Skov.

“You wouldn’t know anything about some guys coming into town, would you?” Skov asks, a strange look in his eyes.

“Why would I?” Adam replies.

“No reason. Just asking. You get around parts of Henrietta we don’t.” Skov lifts one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. "You know."

Adam doesn’t. Unless Skov means his three jobs, growing up in a trailer park, and being familiar with the kids he went to elementary and middle and that one year of high school with.

Skov laughs.

“Forget I asked.” He jumps off the jungle gym and lands on his feet. He sidles up to Adam and taps his own chin in mock consternation. “I only brought it up because, if I recall correctly, someone broke into that warehouse Gansey and Lynch call an apartment. Trashed the place. And, wouldn’t you know, there hasn’t been a break-in since.”

Adam’s short nails dig into his palms. Gansey and Ronan went out the other night to confront Kavinsky about breaking into Monmouth. If Skov is saying Kavinsky had nothing to do with that...

"Oh, don't give me that look, Parrish,” Skov says. “You should know by now people disappear in this town."

"What are you implying?" Adam asks.

Skov smiles unpleasantly. "Me? Nothing. What are you inferring?"

Adam's nails dig deeper. This is Skov getting under his skin. This is what he excels at. He doesn't know anything.

Swan blinks at them slowly and takes a drink from his water bottle.

Adam gets back on his bike. He has work to get to. He can't spend his whole day amusing Skov.

Boyd sets him to changing the oil on a rusty old pickup truck. It's quiet, easy, messy work. It's the kind of work Adam would normally like. Today it gives him too much time to think about Skov and his newfound interest.

The first time, Skov had wanted to know about the Lynch brothers. The next few times were questions about Gansey. Now he's asking about people coming to town. Adam didn't miss the implication that these people are involved with the person who tried to rearrange Declan's face.

Adam would disregard these strange conversations if not for one thing.

No one's seen Ronan in the past two days.

 

* * *

 

Noah or rather the feeling of Noah makes Gansey look up. 

Monmouth Manufacturing is quiet, desolate even. Noah flits in and out, making his presence known through whispers and phantom touches.

That's not what's making Gansey uneasy. Ronan went out Tuesday night and has yet to come back. It's not completely unusual but it's also not completely _usual_.

The repairs to his model of Henrietta would be a distraction from the emptiness of the lot if they weren't so daunting. Gansey doesn't want to think about how many hours of sleepless work were destroyed during the break-in. Instead, he's taken to combing JSTOR for any relevant articles about Glendower. So far, he hasn't found anything of use.

"Noah?" he asks. "Is that you?"

He thinks he hears Noah whisper Ronan's name. He doesn't catch the rest of what Noah is saying.

"What was that?"

"Gone," Noah repeats, barely audible. "Taken."

Gansey's heart stops.

 

* * *

 

After calling everyone who might know Ronan's whereabouts and searching all of his usual haunts, Gansey is at a loss.

Ronan doesn't do this. He disappears but he always comes back. Gansey had to have heard Noah wrong. Ronan is safe and out doing something foolish. He has to be.

"You know we have to call him," Adam says. 

 _Him_  being the last person Gansey wants to talk to.  _Him_  being the most likely answer to this whole puzzle.

"I don't have his number."

Adam sighs and takes Gansey's phone from him. He sends out a query to the entirety of the crew team.

Within ten minutes, they have an answer.

Gansey gives Adam the most aggrieved look possible as he dials Kavinsky's number and holds his phone to his ear.

"Is Ronan with you?" Gansey demands when Kavinsky picks up.

"What?" Kavinsky yells over the roar of Mexican hip-hop. "No. Who the hell is this?"

"It's Richard Campbell Gansey III," Gansey answers tersely. "I'll ask again: Is. Ronan. With. You."

"Why would he be with me? Skov, shut up for a minute; I can't hear shit." 

There's muted yelling. Prokopenko's dark laughter sounds in the distance. The music quiets.

"Has your boyfriend finally left you, Dicky?" Kavinsky croons. "Cause I gotta tell ya, it was only a matter of time."

Gansey doesn't rise to the bait.

"Is he with you?" he repeats, feeling wild. If Ronan's not with Kavinsky, where is he? They already tried the church, the Barns, Nino's. They've called Declan and Matthew. They even asked Blue whether her mother or guardians had any leads. They don't.

Ronan doesn't do friends. He has Gansey, Adam, and Noah. He tolerates Blue. That's it.

Racing is the only part of Ronan left.

Kavinsky huffs. "I already told you he isn't. I don't know where he is. This is gonna come as a big, fucking surprise, Ganse, but I am not your boy's keeper."

Gansey hangs up. He looks at Adam.

"He doesn't know."

A look passes between them.

"Do you think he was...?"

"He has to have been."

_Taken._


	5. Chapter 5

Currently, Ronan Lynch is tied up in the trunk of a rental car that smells vaguely of cigarette smoke. He is furious.

Burglars. Ronan is going to turn Declan's face black and blue all over again. Whatever Declan has gotten himself involved in, Ronan is positive burglars aren't part of it.

Wasn't Declan doing an internship somewhere? Maybe he provoked someone powerful and that someone thought Ronan was the beloved baby brother. It's a 50/50 chance, easy enough to mess up.

Ronan kicks the trunk's lid. It doesn't budge. Ronan did not think it would. He still had to try.

What did this man plan to do with him once they got where they were going? Hold him hostage? Torture him?

Ronan isn't going down without a fight. He is not going to be a pawn in someone's game with Declan. He most definitely is not going to be _saved_ by Declan.

He's going to get himself out of here, then he's going to beat his kidnapper to a pulp, and then he's going to find Declan and punch him so hard he feels it every day for the next fifty fucking years.

Ronan- because while Adam may be the one who fixes cars, Ronan is the one who appreciates them- kicks out the right taillight.

 

* * *

 

His kidnapper is counting bullets at the table while reciting poetry in a language Ronan doesn’t recognize.

There is an angry gash on the man's left cheek where Chainsaw-beautiful, wonderful, clever Chainsaw; she _found_ him- raked him. The man hit her with the barrel of his gun, the force smacking her into the wall. She slid down it and laid in a crumpled heap on the floor. She's still there now.

Ronan's kidnapper is going to pay for that.

“This can all be over once you tell me where the Greywaren is.”

Ronan would flip him off if he could.

Fucking Declan. Had to warn him off Kavinsky. Didn’t think to tell him there were fucking kidnappers after _him_.

Things were a lot easier when Ronan thought Declan had irritated some shady politician. His kidnapper had cleared that little misunderstanding up real quick when he tied Ronan to a chair and said "Greywaren" with the confidence of someone who knew what they were after.

"I don't know what that is," Ronan growls.

The man doesn't look amused.

"Your brother said the same. I didn't believe him, either. You saw what happened." He gestures at his face.

Yes, Ronan's seen what happened to Declan's face.

It doesn't scare him. Part of learning to box is learning to take a hit. Declan got hit. He got back up. That's what you do.

“I asked your father about the Greywaren once," the man says. "He was too shortsighted to give it up. I hope you won’t be.”

Ronan twists his wrists behind him. The zip tie holds.

"You knew my father?"

“Oh, yes." The man gives him an appraising look. He seems to expect the acquaintanceship to bother Ronan. Niall Lynch would disappear for months on end. He was bound to know people Ronan didn't. "I knew Niall Lynch. My employer’s been looking for this object for a long time.” The man says something in that other language. It’s the only colorful thing about him. “You look like him. Oh, not physically. Your older brother inherited his looks. But you've got his demeanor.”

Ronan bares his teeth at him. "You say that like it's a good thing."

The man crouches in front of him. He grips Ronan's chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing it up until Ronan's neck aches. "Tell me, Ronan, where is the Greywaren?"

_Ronan Lynch, tu es Greywaren._

"I don't know," Ronan lies.

The man lets go of his chin. He looks solemnly at Ronan.

“Not going to give it up? Don’t worry. I’ve got time.”

 

* * *

 

"What's your name?" Ronan asks. He's back in the chair, a second zip tie joining the first. His aching shoulders are getting stiff.

Hours have passed in this one-room shack. The man left to get food and came back. Before he left, he threw Ronan in a chest freezer and locked it.

Ronan yelled. No one came. Disappointing. Not unexpected, though. They drove at least half an hour to get here. There are plenty of secluded places the man could have taken him. This area is rife with dilapidated houses and buildings.

No one was coming for him. So what. Ronan could get himself out of this. It would be nice to have an easy way out. That doesn't mean he needs one.

If the man was hoping to fuck with Ronan's head, he'd have to try a lot harder.

"I don't have one."

"Everyone has a name."

"Not everyone."

"How about I call you dumbshit?" Ronan grins. He's heard it's not a pleasant one. "For kidnapping me."

"Cocky," the man says. His gun is lying on the table. It's pointed away from Ronan. "Some people call me the Gray Man."

"That's not a name."

"No, it isn't," the man agrees.

"How long do you plan on holding me?"

"As long as it takes."

Ronan lets the silence stretch. He's not good at making pleasant conversation. He thinks idly that he wouldn't mind getting the Gray Man mad enough to shoot him in the head, if only to get this over with.

"What are you going to do if I don't tell you what you want to know?" Ronan asks.

"What makes you think I need you to tell me?"

"You think Declan will tell you? Good luck." Declan's a born liar and a boxer. He'll be fine. "Matthew doesn't know anything about this."

The Gray Man pushes his chair back from the table. It scrapes along the cement floor with a rough shriek. He stands.

Predator.

The Gray Man walks towards Ronan. He stops a few inches away, forcing Ronan to crane his neck up to look at him.

"You're not very clever, are you, Ronan? I don't need your brothers to find the Greywaren. I've already found it."

"It's not the puzzlebox," Ronan says. "Idiot."

The man laughs harshly.

"I told you I've been looking for the Greywaren for a long time. My employer thinks it's a thing. You and I both know it's not. It's a person. In fact, it's not even _one_ person.

"I wish I'd known that before I killed your father."

Ronan, his hands still tied to the chair, launches himself at the Gray Man and slams his head into the man's gut.

The blows that follow are not unexpected. Ronan cuts his cheek on his teeth. Blood spills into his mouth, a warm, metallic taste that's as pleasant as it is familiar. Ronan spits on the cement floor and is satisfied to see red stain the gray.

The Gray Man makes sure to tie Ronan's legs to the chair this time. The zip ties cut into his ankles, the pain giving Ronan something to focus on.

"Was that really necessary?" The Gray Man sighs as he straightens back up. He wipes his hands on a handkerchief. "Come now, Ronan, be a good boy. Give me what I need and this can be all over. Tell me where the Greywaren is."

"Screw you," Ronan snarls.

"No one's coming for you," the Gray Man says. "Have you realized that yet? Once I get what I need, I'm taking you to my employer. Boys like you, they go missing all the time."

The Gray Man wipes the bloody spit from Ronan's chin.

"Resist all you want. I _will_ get what I need. I am very good at my job."

 

* * *

 

Ronan stays awake for thirty-eight hours. The Gray Man can't know Ronan's the Greywaren. Ronan just has to stay awake.

After forty hours, Ronan falls asleep.

In the dream place, Orphan Girl screams and begs him to take her away.

"I can't," he tells her. "Not now. I'm in trouble."

The trees rustle, offering him encouragement. He can do this. He can save himself. He's the Greywaren. They offer him dream things, guns, knives, flamethrowers. Weapons that would get him out of this in a second. Weapons that would reveal his secret in a fraction of that time.

He can't let the Gray Man see. He has to get out as surreptitiously as possible. Ronan grabs the smallest, most inconspicuous dream object. It will be enough.

He wills himself to wake up.

The Gray Man is staring at him as Ronan sits paralyzed. He seems almost curious.

Ronan curses silently as the box cutter slips out of his slack grip and falls to the floor. It clatters against the cement. The Gray Man stares.

“My employer will be so pleased,” the man says, sounding a bare tone above absolute boredom, “when I tell him you’re the Greywaren.”

Ronan spits at him.

The Gray Man doesn't stand so close this time. He picks the box cutter up off the floor and holds it to Ronan’s throat, twisting it so the edge nicks Ronan’s skin. Blood begins to trickle down his throat.

"Or should I say  _a_ Greywaren? Tell me about the other boy,” the Gray Man says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Which boy? There are so many boys. Adam? Noah?

“The one that was with you at the fairgrounds. Tell me: is the other boy like you? Are you the only one?”

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” Ronan snaps. Kavinsky. The Gray Man saw them. He _knows_.

"That’s what your brother said.” The man rubs his forehead, like questioning Ronan is tiring. “Tell me about the power source that runs through Henrietta.”

Ronan glares at him.

The Gray Man punches him. Then again. Then a third time.

With his eye swelling shut, Ronan tells him to go to hell.

 

* * *

 

When it gave Ronan the box cutter, the dream place offered him a phone as well. The Grey Man took the box cutter. He didn't think to check Ronan's pockets a second time before tossing him back in the freezer chest.

Ronan wriggles the phone from his pocket now and stares at it in disbelief. It's shiny, identical to his own. It has a signal, three strong bars, and a full battery.

The question is, what's he going to do with a phone?

_Use it, dumbass._

He should text Declan. Fuck, he should text Gansey or, better yet, Adam. They'll come for him.

His hand slips and he texts Kavinsky instead.

 

* * *

 

Kavinsky doesn't come. Neither does Gansey. 

Ronan's keyed into every sound, every movement outside the shack. No savior has materialized. Ronan has to hope the dream phone worked. He has to assume one of them's coming for him because if they aren't...

If they aren't, there's the very real possibility Ronan is never going to see either of them again. 

The Gray Man stands in front of him, holding a syringe filled with a clear liquid. He taps his finger along the crook of Ronan’s left arm. He injects the liquid into the vein. Ronan watches in undisguised horror.

Ronan’s put many substances into his body but he’s always had an idea of what they were before they went in. He has no idea what this is.

The Gray Man’s face is blank.

“I’m no good to you dead,” Ronan snarls. The words pull at his split lip.

The Gray Man raises an eyebrow. “Who said anything about killing you? I need you to sleep. If you won’t show me what you can do willingly…” He lets the end of the sentence dangle.

Ronan knows what happens when he sleeps.

Proof. The box cutter wasn't enough. The Gray Man needs more proof of what Ronan can do. He must have guessed Ronan’s control, while improved, isn’t enough to come out of the dream place empty-handed.

Ronan should be panicking. Why isn’t he panicking?

He feels loose, relaxed. Calm.

Shit, shit, shit.

He can’t sleep.

_Don’t go to sleep, Ronan._

If he sleeps, the Gray Man will get what he wants. He has to stay awake.

Ronan's eyelids drift closed.

 

* * *

 

In his dream, there's a night horror waiting to break free. Only it's not his.

When he was a child, Ronan saw his father shoot a devil in the head thirteen times before it walked away unharmed. It didn't occur to him that, where he saw a devil, his father saw something else.

There's a devil in the dream place now. Its skin is a burned orange; its eyes only black. Its horns end in wicked points and its feet in hooves. It's as real as any dream can be, a grinning, animal-man hybrid with no purpose save debauchery and destruction. It cannot be harmed. It cannot be destroyed.

This is the villain that lurked in his father's mind.

Ronan is going to set it free. He is going to unleash it on the Gray Man and he is going to _get out of here_.

As soon as he wakes up. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

There's a tap, tap, tapping at Kavinsky's side door. Jiang opens it to find, staring up at him, the biggest, blackest crow he's ever seen.

"What," says Jiang, "the fuck."

"Kerah," says the bird.


	7. Chapter 7

Joseph Kavinsky points an impossible-looking gun at a hitman and shoots him in the face. The hitman drops in a crumpled, gray heap.

"No need to thank me," Kavinsky says drily. It’s more than a little terrifying how casually he holds the gun. There’s a fresh, shiny burn peeking out of the haphazard dressing on his left hand. He notices it no more than the gun. "Proko, get this shit cleaned up."

His voice is calm, measured. This is just another day.

Mobster, Blue thinks in sudden horror. The rumors always said his father was a mobster.

Prokopenko is pouring a greasy-looking liquid over the body. He might as well be watering a flowerbed.

"Stand back," one of Kavinsky's other henchmen says. Blake, Blue thinks numbly. He looks positively bored. He strikes a match and tosses it on the body. With a whoosh, it goes up in neon green flames.

Neon. Green. Flames aren't supposed to be that color.

In a minute, there's nothing left but a scorch mark.

Kavinsky smiles. It shows too many teeth. "Don't look so surprised, baby doll. If he didn't get Lynch here, he was coming after me next."

Blue's hand spasms as anger replaces shock. God, how she hates this guy.

"Blue," Adam says. He's kneeling next to Ronan, looking troubled. When they broke into this shack, they found Ronan with his head lolling against his chest, asleep. Nothing they did could wake him.

Then Mr. Gray stepped out of the shadows. Kavinsky turned on him too quickly, as if he knew he would be there, and shot him. The deafening noise filled the room, the loudest thing Blue had ever heard.

It wasn't loud enough to wake Ronan.

But he's alive. He's definitely alive.

Unlike Mr. Gray.

This is not the first time any of them has seen a dead body, Blue reminds herself, nor the first time they’ve seen a man die.

 _He killed people_. _He would have hurt Ronan._

He was a hit man. He was a murderer. Kavinsky took out an indisputable threat.

She remembers suggesting not two days ago they give Kavinsky over to the hitman. They were gathered around the table in the front room, Blue, her mothers, and her boys, discussing what to do. Mr. Gray, for that was what Maura called him though it was most certainly not his name, had taken her mother on a handful of dates. He had delighted Calla and left Persephone unconcerned, right up until Mr. Gray's search led him straight to Ronan.

Someone should have put their foot down. They should have said they weren't going to let a hitman take an admittedly despicable boy and do who knows what to him just to keep him from doing the same to Ronan. Someone should have but they didn't and Ronan stormed out of 300 Fox Way, straight, it would seem, into a kidnapping.

It doesn’t feel good to admit Kavinsky is right.

"He gave Lynch something," Prokopenko tells Blue not unkindly. She jumps. She didn’t see him come over. "It's keeping him under."

She has never liked Prokopenko but she’s glad for any information. Adam’s been trying to communicate with Cabeswater. So far, he hasn’t been able to figure out why Ronan won’t wake up.

"How do you know?" she asks.

"We'll wake him up," Prokopenko says in lieu of answering. Kavinsky crooks a finger at him and he walks away, leaving Blue alone. She grabs her right elbow with her left hand, feeling small and overlooked. She wishes Noah were here.

Why didn't Ronan call Gansey sooner?

That's a stupid question. Ronan has the self-preservation of a leek.

Swan and Jiang are sitting on top of a freezer chest. They're sharing a bottle of Jim Beam, completely unconcerned by what's happening around them. Jiang laughs like he didn't just witness a murder and immolation.

He might not have even noticed.

Jiang is the prettiest and, Blue is pretty sure, the stupidest of the lot, although Prokopenko or Blake could give him a run for his money on that second part. Swan, handsome and untouchable, has never said anything while she’s been around to hear, which makes his intelligence or lack thereof pretty hard to gauge. Kavinsky is, of course, deceptively shrewd, vicious, and terrifying.

There used to be others but from what Blue's heard, Rasmussen graduated this year and Morris and Dvorak got out of town. No one misses them. Rasmussen was only ever notable for rumors about certain body parts being inversely proportional to bedroom prowess. Morris is the asshole who got Kimber Andrews pregnant and ditched her before the baby even came. Dvorak- Blue shudders. That boy belongs in a jail cell after all the things he's done.

Raven boys. Blue never should have gotten involved with them.

If only she’d had a choice.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Ronan sees when he wakes is blue. Skov's eyes, framed by thick, dark lashes, are as brilliant and treacherous as glacial ice. 

Ronan groans. Of all Kavinsky's dogs, Ronan likes him the least. Prokopenko's gross and Jiang's an overeager fool. Swan has no personality at all. 

But Skov. Skov's a right asshole.

"Welcome back, sunshine," Skov says. "Did you have a nice nap?"

"Piss up a rope," Ronan tells him. He rolls his aching shoulders. His wrists and neck feel rubbed raw.

"Move slowly," Gansey commands and isn't that a surprise, Kavinsky and Gansey being civil in a room together. Ronan doesn't see Kavinsky, though he must be here. Skov would never have come otherwise.

Gansey helps him up. Ronan stumbles, legs weak from being forced into one position for so long. He clutches his friend's shoulder hard. He refuses to let Kavinsky's goons see him humiliated.

"Lynch," Kavinsky says, appearing from nowhere.

"Kavinsky," Ronan replies. 

Kavinsky lifts an eyebrow and Ronan's heart surges. He's seen that expression behind the wheel of a Mitsubishi, the soft yellow of streetlights reflecting off the hood.

Their gazes hold. Ronan won't say thank you. Kavinsky doesn't ask him to. He tilts his head to the side. There's something unreadable in his expression.

Gansey looks between them warily.

"We should go," he says.

Kavinsky gives Ronan something for "fortitude" and jokes about shoving an Epi-Pen in his heart. He doesn’t. Gansey looks like he might want to shove an Epi-Pen in Kavinsky.

Gansey leads him toward the Camaro and opens the door for him. Ronan runs a hand over the dash, feeling the warmth of the sun. He settles into the passenger seat and leans his head back with a heavy moan. Everything hurts.

They don’t go to the hospital. They probably should. It is easy enough to see why they're better off not going. Ronan’s got a shallow cut on his neck, raw wrists, and a beat up face. There would only be questions. So they go to Monmouth, where Gansey forces Ronan onto his bed and hauls out a first aid kit Ronan didn't know they had.

He rubs his stinging neck, waiting for the lecture that's not coming.

“He killed my dad,” he says because no one's saying anything. The Gray Man was gone when he woke up. Ronan has yet to ask what happened to him. “His employer has been after the Greywaren for a long time. My dad wouldn’t give me up.” His face hardens and his jaw feels unbearably tight. “He killed my dad because he wouldn’t  _give me up_.”

Niall Lynch had been murdered because of a secret. Ronan thought for so long it was a secret they shared. No. The Gray Man had been after the Greywaren all these years. It just wasn't until recently that he knew it was a _him_.

Ronan tries not to think about the fact that Declan, too, had gotten hurt because of that secret.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Blue says.

“Did I say it was?” he snaps.

Blue narrows her eyes at him.

"Ronan," Gansey warns.

Ronan sneers. Then he hisses as Adam applies an alcohol swab to his wrist. Adam rolls his eyes.

Noah, his eyes huge and anxious, gnaws at the skin around his thumbnail. He's only spoken once since Ronan returned. Ronan gets the feeling he's waiting for acknowledgment.

Ronan doesn't give it. Noah continues chewing his nails.

His phone buzzes. A text. There's only one person who would text him right now. Ronan will check it later.

Adam wraps cotton and a length of elastic bandage around each of Ronan's wrists. He's surprisingly good at this- or maybe not so surprisingly.

"I need to check your ankles," Adam says quietly. He moves to the floor to roll up the hem of Ronan's jeans. His hands with their long, elegant fingers reach out tentatively, checking Ronan's ankles for injury. Ronan sucks in a breath.

"Bruised," Adam says, voice still quiet, as if Ronan is going to spook from a couple contusions. He looks up at Ronan. This, Ronan imagines, is what it's like looking into the heart of Cabeswater. "The skin isn't broken, though."

His hand is loose around Ronan's ankle. Ronan jerks his leg back and Adam lets go. He stands up with a sigh, rubbing his palms on his cheap slacks.

"Give it a few days and you'll be fine."

Ronan grunts. It's as close to a thanks as he's going to give.

Ignoring the startled noises of the others, he launches himself off Gansey's mattress and goes to his room. The door slams behind him out of habit. 

Ronan leans against the door and pulls his phone from his pocket. 

There are two messages, both from Kavinsky:

_this means you owe me now rite_

and

_see you @ the fourth_

A shudder passes through Ronan. It's not entirely unpleasant.


	8. Chapter 8

Repairing a fluctuating ley line is slow-going.

The ground is hot under Adam's hands, alive but...snarled. Stuck on something. Adam closes his eyes, searching out the break in the line.

It's as frustrating as trying to find the broken bulb in a string of old Christmas lights blindfolded. And Persephone's advice is only so helpful. She can show him what to do. She can't do it for him. _Adam_ is Cabeswater's eyes and hands. _He's_ the one who has to fix things.

_What do you need me to do?_  he asks Cabeswater.

He draws two tarot cards and lays them down on the grass, barely needing to glance at them. The answer is instantaneous and fleeting. There are stones lodged under several inches of dirt. They need to be moved.

Adam gets his shovel and begins digging.

His mind drifts.

Kavinsky remains a problem. All the fixing in the world's not going to do any good if Kavinsky's still out there dreaming. Cabeswater and Noah can't manifest the way things are now. They need a permanent solution.

Adam doesn't suppose they can just ask Kavinsky to stop.

He closes his eyes and concentrates on the ley line. There's a crackling across town as another transformer blows. Adam sighs.

How is he supposed to do anything with Kavinsky sucking up all the power? What can he even be dreaming that takes so much energy? It's ludicrous.

And then there's his friends.

Now that he's seen what they can do, Adam is all too aware of Kavinsky's gang. It's not that he's afraid of them. They don't have a monopoly on getting rid of dangerous people. It's more he's never taken the time to properly notice them and, now that he's started, he can't stop.

There has always been something decidedly off about Kavinsky's gang of assholes. Kavinsky will deal to anyone, party with anyone, forge for anyone, but his actual friends are far and few between.

He sees them driving around town, hooting and hollering, and acting like general idiots. They don't care how people see them, don't care that they're running their families' names into the ground. They drink, they smoke, they party.

You would think them capable of many things. Murder isn't one of them.

Adam is trying to reconcile that with these carefree party boys. He's struggling.

He remembers World Hist, watching Swan watch Skov trace vulgar words into his desk, Swan taking sips from his ever-present water bottle, the one everyone knows doesn't contain water.

He remembers Calculus with Jiang, whose presence was always some sort of miracle. He never paid attention, slept through the lessons, and didn't show up for half the tests.

Mostly, Adam remembers a conversation he overheard. A few weeks ago, after Jiang was sent out of class for failing to answer any of the professor's questions correctly, Henry Cheng turned to Brandon Stoley and angrily muttered, "He knows the material, he's smarter than half these idiots. He just doesn't  _care._ "

Stoley said, “There's nothing you can do about guys like that."

Adam agrees.

But he remembers, too, Jiang and Swan laughing while the hitman's body burned. He remembers Skov lighting a match and tossing it on a gasoline-soaked body. He remembers Prokopenko being the only one who looked the least bit concerned that a man lay dead.

Is it Kavinsky? Is it his leadership that turns them to such dark things?

And, if they are already so dark, what would it take to turn them against their master?

 

* * *

 

If Adam bothered to ask, Skov would have told him. Nothing would make them turn on K because K's dreaming isn't a problem. Power outages, diseased plants, disappearing forests- why should they care about these things? They're seventeen and eighteen, wild and free. They won't be weighed down by such petty troubles.

If Adam pressed, Skov might even tell him it didn't matter.

The "problem" would solve itself in due time.

 

* * *

 

On July 3rd, while K is prepping for the Fourth, Skov goes to his house. Mrs. K lets him in, her eyes that familiar blurry state, and waves him towards the den. She doesn't notice or care about the duffel bag Skov has slung over one shoulder.

He takes what he needs, impossible things that will be inaccessible in a few days' time. Not too many people like delinquents rifling through their dead son's stuff.

If Mrs. K were less drugged out, she might notice her son is standing on the brink of sanctity.

It's too late now. Immortality isn't among this false god's gifts.

Skov shakes his head and continues cramming things into the duffel bag. Drugs, pills, impossible liquids. He takes things he doesn't want Mrs. K to find. No mother should have to know how truly terrible their progeny is.

When Skov's finished, the duffel bag is heavy and there's still so much more to be had. He leaves it. He's got what he came for.

He calls out a farewell to Mrs. K. There's no response. He almost hopes she doesn't love her son. Tomorrow night's going to be terrible for her.

There's a possibility it won't happen tomorrow. There are always changes.

Skov prays it won't happen tomorrow. 

A few more days. That's all he's asking for.

They could go up to Atlantic City or down to Myrtle Beach and enjoy the hottest days of the summer. They could go to Six Flags or Busch Gardens, act like normal teenagers. They could pretend self-destruction isn't looming on their horizons. They could dream of a future, any future, so long as it goes past this summer.

They won't, of course. They're not normal. There is no future for some of them. One of them's already dead and others are reaching their expiration dates.

Skov's learned his lesson: he can't change anything. Tomorrow will go down however it goes down. If it doesn't happen tomorrow, it'll be the next day or the next, stretching on and on until this summer ends.

K won't live to see the fall. He never does.

Skov throws the duffel bag in the back of his RX-7. He puts the key in the ignition and looks up at K's house one more time. Then he peels out of the Kavinskys' street. 

He has a Lynch brother to go find.


	9. Chapter 9

Kavinsky goes up in flames on the Fourth of July. The cops write it off as an accident, the papers as a too foreseeable tragedy.

Don't play with illegal fireworks, kids, if you don't want to get burned.

Now there's a Mitsubishi Evo gathering dust in Monmouth's lot and there's a hole in Ronan's chest that feels bigger than it was ever meant to be.

And Ronan is changed. People say he changed after his father died and he did but this is something different. This feels less like reclaiming what was lost than coming into his own.

In August, Ronan looks at the Mitsubishi and decides that’s it.

He gives the car to Jiang, who wants it in the covetous way of the grief-stricken. There are a hundred of these in an abandoned fairground and Jiang wants this one. Ronan doesn’t ask, is simply glad someone’s willing to take it.

Ronan picks him up from a mansion on the affluent side of town, the one the locals consider a different world altogether. They don’t speak as they drive to Monmouth. Jiang’s eyes are sharp and greedy, soaking in everything.

Jiang is stoned. He's got alcohol on his breath, too, and Ronan...can’t care. He doesn't have time to solve every fuckup's problems, especially when he can barely solve his own. Not when Noah’s decaying and Blue’s mother is gone, and Adam’s losing more and more of himself every day.

Jiang and Ronan have only ever shared two things in common: a love for fast cars and a disdain for all things Henry Cheng. They aren’t friends. They never were. Ronan can’t take the time to care about him.

"Did he ever give you anything?" he asks Jiang as they stand in Monmouth's lot. Ronan’s secret lies between them. It’s a light thing, just another piece of the impossible boy that was Joseph Kavinsky. You run with Kavinsky, you don’t care about those sorts of secrets.

 _Did you know?_ Ronan is really saying. _You had to have known._

"He gave me a million things," Jiang says. They look at the Mitsubishi. Jiang’s holding the keys. He doesn't seem keen on driving it. "Nothing as grand as this, though." He gives Ronan a cautious look. "I knew what he could do. We all did. Sometimes it was heaven and sometimes it was hell."

 _He went out the way he wanted_ goes unspoken. It might even be true.

Jiang smells like cologne, alcohol, and gasoline. It's an intoxicating, familiar mix.

Jiang’s gazing up at one of the second floor windows. Noah’s standing there. He gives Jiang an inscrutable look and turns away.

Ronan rubs his wrists, feeling bruises long gone.

He hopes Jiang sets the Mitsubishi on fire, melts it down to the stereo and keeps going until the chassis is nothing more than a twisted hunk of metal. He's not sure he could bear seeing anyone drive it.

He gets the feeling Jiang thinks they're friends. Maybe they could have been once. Real ones, not just passing acquaintances. Ronan could have made that choice, taken Kavinsky's offer. He could still make an effort. He knows what Jiang, Skov, and Swan are going through.

Ronan has no room in his life right now for more friends.

Eventually, Jiang gets in the Mitsubishi and drives off. Eventually, Ronan walks back inside Monmouth Manufacturing and collapses onto his bed.

He doesn't sleep till morning.

 

* * *

 

“What’s going on?” Adam asks.

O’Leary shrugs. “Two of our local delinquents getting in a pissing match.”

There’s a crowd around two students who are in the midst of an honest-to-God, knockdown, drag-out fight. Adam shouldn’t be surprised- he’s seen the Lynch brothers go at it a number of times- but it’s still somewhat shocking to see two well-bred, rich kids duking it out.

“I’ve got my money on Skov,” Brett Johnson says amiably. “You?”

He’s talking about real money, which he knows Adam doesn’t have. It’s a deliberate dig or maybe it’s not. Maybe Johnson thinks Adam is white trash enough to actually place a bet.

Skov’s left eyebrow is split and starting to swell. There’s blood trailing down the side of his face. Swan has a bruise forming on his jaw. His hands arel up in fists, legs spread in a poor imitation of a boxing stance.

These two aren’t surprising, per se. It’s the here and now of it.

Once, there was someone to defuse the situation that was Skov and Swan breathing the same air. Now that someone is gone and there's no one eager to take his place.

Maybe that's what they're fighting about. Taking his place.

Swan swings, landing a solid hit to Skov’s ribs. Skov wheezes. Swan brings his knee up and slams it into Skov’s stomach before he can catch his breath. He locks his hands together and brings them down on the back of Skov’s neck, slamming his knee into him again. Skov hits the ground.

Someone whistles in appreciation.

Adam has to admire Swan. He might be taller and broader-shouldered but Skov is heavier, more solid.

The fighting seems at odds with Swan’s personality. Then again, five seconds with Skov would bring anyone to a breaking point. Even Swan, who is as elegant and refined as an overmedicated trophy wife.

He even looks like one. Swan's the sort of beautiful that makes people look twice and say things like "mixed" and "exotic", and “what _are_ you?”. He's not really aloof, just generally pissed off and partway through a water bottle of vodka. He's quiet, with a passion for egging people on. One of those people who just wants to watch the world burn.

Adam should probably find a new phrase to describe the terminally self-destructive.

Skov’s upright. Swan drives a knee into his side again. You’d think Skov would try to protect it.

Why are these two even associating anymore? Swan and Skov were always volatile together, their uneasy association barely tempered by whatever substance Kavinsky was peddling that month.

No one can tell what pisses them off more: being together or being apart. Then again, no one really cares. To Aglionby’s students and faculty, Kavinsky’s dysfunction was amusing. The squabbles of his underlings not so much. Everyone's waiting to see who will implode first. Kavinsky’s gone, Prokopenko’s in the hospital, who will be next? In this sick game, they’re all expendable.

There’s a crack as Skov’s fist connects with Swan’s nose. Blood spurts in a wide arc. Skov staggers back, red on his fist.

Swan brings his fingers to the space above his upper lip. He looks at the blood on his fingers, then at Skov, and grins. His face is suffused with feral joy. No, more than that. _Liberation_.

“Swan,” Adam says, feeling queasy. “That’s who’s going to win.”

He walks away. He won't derive any pleasure from watching these two fight.

 

* * *

 

 

A hole has been left in Gansey's Henrietta. 

In a span of three years, five people have died strange, mysterious deaths. Niall Lynch, Barrington Whelk, Joseph Kavinsky, Jesse Dittley, and Persephone Poldma. Two others, Noah and Prokopenko, are the dead masquerading as living. Aurora Lynch is a dream brought to life. Matthew, Ronan told him one sleepless night this fall, was the same.

There was also, of course, the nameless hit man. He was not a piece of Henrietta, though, just someone passing through, intent on destroying the Lynch family

Gansey will not publicly mourn him, any more than he mourned Whelk or Kavinsky. Some people were better off gone.

His mother supports the death penalty.

Gansey, generally, does not. It's a waste of taxpayers' dollars for one, all the appeals and assorted death row costs. It also went against his belief that people deserved second chances.

Only, Whelk and the hitman got their second chances. Look what they did with them. It might be time for Gansey to revise his stance.

Gansey sighs and leans back in his chair.

He would have liked Kavinsky to have had a chance to turn his life around. He could have gotten off the drugs, maybe even made a name for himself. 

He could have been something.

"Do you really believe that?" Noah asks from his perch on the corner of Gansey's desk. He trails a translucent hand over a Welsh grammar book. "That he could have been something?"

As the days grow longer and Glendower beckons louder, Gansey is becoming more certain of what his favor will be.

"Yes," he says. "He had potential. He only needed to put in the effort."

Noah's fingers skitter over the edge of the desk.

"Are you going to help his friends?" Noah asks.

"Help them with what?"

"Never mind," Noah says quietly and he's fading.

It scares Gansey how little Noah is visible these days. If Blue isn't around, he starts to fade as soon as he appears. He's a proper ghost now.

"Hang in there," he tells Noah. "Soon, you'll be strong again."

He's already gone.

 

* * *

 

 

An early snow sends flurries through Henrietta. Ronan is out driving when they first come down, little patches of white against a black night.

The streets are dead. There's only Ronan, the BMW, and the snow.

The light goes from yellow to red. Ronan slows to a stop. He watches the snow fall. He rolls his window down and breathes in the cold air, watches how his breath turns into a white cloud with every exhale.

A car pulls up beside him. Ronan recognizes it. He's raced it too many times not to. Jiang's Supra. Swan is behind the wheel.

From this angle, he almost looks normal. Swan drove through a guardrail a few weeks ago and had to be peeled out of the wreckage of his Golf. Diagnosis: cracked ribs and a half dozen cuts and bruises. For a good while, it looked like someone took a sandblaster to the right side of his face.

Ronan doesn't give a shit. It's just part of the mental tally he keeps of his classmates and their endless misadventures and occasional successes. Aglionby, for all it tries, can't cut out the rottenness at the core of so many of them. Not everyone can be a Gansey or a Henry Cheng.

He expects Swan to goad him into racing, to rev his engine and nose up to the light.

Swan doesn’t even look at him. When the light turns green, there’s no burst of speed, not even a crude gesture. He makes a left turn.

Jiang’s eyes follow the BMW as they disappear into the night.


	10. Chapter 10

What do you do with a hundred nearly identical cars? You sell them for parts, that’s what. You get the junkyard to take what it will, offer up the rest to the locals, then get plastered in the backseat of the only one that’s left, the biggest fuckup Kavinsky could make, no engine, one axle, two fucking square tires.

Jiang spreads his hands out on the black leather seats and wonders if Proko was there when he made it. Skov and Swan laugh because they’re drunk and they always thought Jiang was a little too sweet on ugly ol’ Proko.

Jiang tells them to shut the fuck up. He knows what they do, they’re obvious as anything. Swan looks at him with his escort eyes, and Jiang wonders when life’s going to start making sense again.

“In another timeline,” Skov says. Jiang chucks his empty beer can at his head.

It hits the dash, which is one solid piece, the steering wheel can’t even turn. Kavinsky must have been out of his mind when he made this thing, this impossible, glorious thing. It’s like terrible modern art, the type that looks like a kindergartner could make it, only you try and you realize you can’t even do it.

“He was a miracle,” Skov says. “A goddamn fucking miracle.”

They’re going to torch this car once the three of them can be bothered to get out of it, just Molotov cocktail the shit out of it because that’s what Kavinsky would have wanted and what Proko would have done. Not just the Proko Jiang adored but the other Proko, too, the one Swan and Skov talk about, who fought with Kavinsky half the time and was entranced by him the rest. Whatever happened to that Proko is a mystery. All Jiang knows is he came back different one summer and Swan took that as a sort of threat, like he thought Kavinsky might replace him, too.

Jiang never believed that. If Kavinsky wanted Proko dead, he wouldn’t have brought him back. Skov and Swan never got Proko’s appeal, the thrill in having someone so happy to see you, someone a little too dependent but never too demanding because, more than anything, you needed someone to need you.

Something happened and no one knows what it was, least of all Proko. It wasn’t on purpose. Jiang can’t believe Kavinsky, for all his awfulness, would have done it on purpose, not to Proko. Jiang may have only known the first him for a few months, but there had been a connection between Kavinsky and Proko. That’s what Jiang wants to believe.

Just because you help someone change doesn’t mean you didn’t value the person they were.

"He should have been immortal," Swan says. It sounds bitter, like everything he says lately.

It has not been a good summer. 

 

* * *

 

The fairground burns. 

The air is hazy with gasoline fumes and the heat of the fires. All around them there's crackling and popping. Paint blackens and peels off old, dry wood. Pieces of sideboard break off and fall to the ground as red hot embers. It looks and feels like a level of hell.

Swan tilts his bottle and pours the rest of the Grey Goose on the ground as a tribute.

"We should get out of here before the cops show," he says, swinging the bottle above his head and letting go. It makes a high arc and shatters against what was once a ticket booth. Now it's only fuel.

"You don't think they'd want to watch?"

The cops probably would enjoy seeing Kavinsky's ill-gained territory destroyed. Another blight on the community gone.

"Let's get out of here. Leave it." He means the fire. Leave the fairground burning. Someone else's mess to clean up.

Jiang tosses his beer can on the ground with the others. It bounces on the packed dirt. All the grass is withered and yellow-brown. The fire is the only thing remotely alive in this forgotten place.

"Yeah, let's go."

They let an inferno consume the last traces of Kavinsky's kingdom. Kavinsky never liked fire for all that he couldn’t stay away from the stuff. Exposure therapy, Skov called it.

_Did you ever get over your fear, K?_

They turn their backs on the fairground. Sirens sound in the distance but they're too far away to do any good. There will be nothing left to salvage when the fire department gets here. Flames already fill the rearview mirror as Swan drives them away.

Wouldn’t it be something if those flames spread and set the whole of this fucked up town alight.

 

* * *

 

 

There's not much to do in the valley these days. The three of them are listless, fucking timebombs waiting for someone or something to give them purpose.

They find it in Ronan Lynch.

Oh, not the way you'd expect. They don't buddy up with him or even engage him other than Jiang, who is actually genuinely personable when he feels up to it.

They watch him. They ward off disaster. Lynch has been known to leave bodies in his wake, one, two, three, four. They make sure no one else is going to lose somebody because they got mixed up with Lynch.

In point of fact, they don't do much. They get Carruthers to stop pestering Parrish, tell members of the crew team Gansey isn't coming back, spread rumors among the public school kids. It's more than a little pathetic for people who used to run with Joseph Kavinsky.

Which is what's expected of them now. People like seeing a good come to Jesus moment. They aren't so interested in dealing with the leftovers.

No one notices when Swan's drinking starts to get out of hand. It was always excessive; now it's frankly alarming. The administration looks sideways when Jiang skips half his classes and doesn't get out of bed some days. No one cares that Skov is winning a one man contest for most punchable douche in school.

Truthfully, things haven't changed all that much. 

They lost their king, not their goddamn minds.

 

* * *

 

 

"Yo, Jiang Zemin!"

Jiang's mood sours instantly. Last week, Skov took to calling him Jiang Lijun and Jiang was this close to running him over with his Supra. Swan would have let him do it, too.

"What?"

"You, me, we're doing lunch. Come on."

Jiang's tempted to say no. Four months ago, he wouldn't have hesitated. Skov would've asked someone else, then tossed a greasy bag of food at Jiang when he got back. Most of the time, he'd even remember to get something Jiang could actually eat.

"Why don't you ask Swan?"

Skov pulls a face and Jiang is tempted to laugh. It must be one of their bad days. What are they called? Every day.

"He's gonna meet us there."

Jiang's eyebrows raise. Huh. That's unexpected.

They drive out of Henrietta and hit the interstate. Skov doesn't try to get him to talk. Jiang's content to stare out the window.

For too long now, Jiang’s been living with an ever dwindling supply of impossible pills, hanging out with one person he genuinely hates and another who can't stand him, and waking up every day to confront the fact that the two people who made this place actually fucking bearable aren't coming back.

Nothing feels real anymore. Skov asks him to go somewhere and Jiang doesn't even comment about Swan's shoes kicking around in the back or the empty beer cans on the floor. For a second, he actually thinks _what right do I have to tell Skov how to live his life?_

Four months ago, he would have said he had every.

 

* * *

 

 

"I got to seventy once," Skov says. It's not really a way to start a conversation but Skov's always a little more disjointed, a little less connected to reality, when Swan's being nice to him. Or maybe Swan tolerates him more when he's like this. One of the two.

"Was Swan with you?" Jiang asks, shoving a handful of fries in his mouth. It's the only thing he's eaten all day, the only thing he can stomach lately. He doesn't actually care. He's just making conversation, trying to act like the three of them have something in common other than Kavinsky, fast cars, and anything that makes life suck a little less.

"Swan's always with me." He grins lecherously at the boy sitting next to him, the one whose shoulders he's got an arm wrapped around. "Swan's the reason I get out of bed in the morning."

If Swan finds this as supremely creepy as Jiang does, he doesn't show it. He steals one of Jiang’s fries, examines it dubiously, and eats it.

Why are they here? Jiang wants to know. Why did Skov pull him out of school? He doesn't want to be here. They don't want him here.

They are not friends.

Skov launches into a story Jiang doesn't want to listen to so he doesn't. Skov's one of those people who needs to talk to fill the silence. Jiang likes silence. He likes being alone, no one around, quiet so strong it's almost white noise.

He likes noise, too, but only if it's loud. Yelling, screaming, thumping bass. So long as it's not harsh syllables spoken in an undertone or quiet threats wrapped in careful words.

"Do you want to go?" Skov asks. He's holding a milkshake in one hand, straw to his lips. Jiang tried a milkshake once before realizing lactose intolerance wasn't going to go away no matter how much he wanted it to.

Jiang blinks. "Go where?"

"Johnson's holding a party this Saturday. You wanna go?"

Jiang has no desire to go anywhere with Skov.

"No," he says simply. "I don't think so."

"You sure? A bunch of people are gonna be there."

Jiang's sure.

"You don't need the rest," Swan says suddenly, pulling the milkshake out of Skov's grip. Skov brushes it off but Jiang feels the jab.

He presses his hand to his stomach. It's small but noticeable. He's back on regular meds again now that the dream ones have started drying up. The side effects aren't worth the extra alertness, not when he can get the same effect from cocaine or molly. It's not hard to find dealers in this town. Mostly it's meth, though heroin's on the rise across the country what with the slightly smaller chance of blowing your house up during the manufacturing process (why does he know this, he shouldn't know this, since when has he cared about countrywide dealings of anything, he should just take the meds and smile through the weight gain and the acne and the fact that he's not getting any better, he'll never get any better. He should. He won't. He's going off the meds soon, he knows it, he can't cope with being hideous on top of everything else).

Swan's looking at him. There's no way he knows everything Jiang is thinking. Jiang’s anxiety just makes it look that way.

Swan pushes the tray of fries closer to Jiang. He takes a sip of Skov’s milkshake. For Swan, that’s almost an apology.

“You want to catch a movie later?” Swan asks, directing the question at Jiang.

Swan doesn’t actually want to watch a movie with him. He’s pretending, just like Jiang is, putting in the effort. They’re on the same wavelength: stick together, pretend they’re friends. One day they might be. More likely, they’ll weather this year in each other’s company, because, the truth is, they only have each other.


	11. Chapter 11

"Are you open?" a familiar voice asks.

Adam looks up, automatically wiping his hands on a rag. "For you? No."

Swan gives him a thin smile. "That's not what your sign says."

There's a silver Fiat 500 Abarth parked outside. Adam sizes it up. The Fiat is brand new, a work of Italian engineering. There’s no way Swan’s run it into the ground already.

“Why are you here?" Adam asks. Swan's wearing immaculate, dark designer jeans and a long-sleeved, deep V shirt that would be scandalous if he had cleavage. Adam can feel the grease lining his own fingernails.

"You're the only place open on a Sunday," Swan points out. 

Adam expects a comment about superstitious hicks. None is forthcoming.

"If you're worried about me paying, I have the money." 

Adam isn't but okay.

"How can I help you?" he asks Swan.

"Is there a mechanic on duty?"

Adam purses his lips. "That would be me. What do you need?"

"My battery light won't turn off."

It takes about ten seconds to figure out Swan left his interior lights on overnight and his battery is near dead. Technically, Adam is only supposed to do minor repairs.

He sells Swan a new battery and puts it in for him. The car doesn't necessarily need one. Adam could have tried to jumpstart the battery. Fuck these rich kids. Swan won't notice the extra two hundred bucks, and Boyd won't be mad once he hears about the upsell.

Swan watches Adam replace his battery. He's very obviously bored by the whole affair.

"Did your parents teach you to do this?" he asks Adam.

"No," Adam answers curtly. Teaching implied some measure of interest in making sure Adam learned. Robert Parrish only ever showed his son what he wanted done and punished Adam when his son's efforts didn't meet his exacting standards. There's no pride to be had in a skill learned that way. "I figured it out myself working on old cars. You could figure it out, too, if you tried."

"Probably," Swan says. It doesn't sound like trying is something he wants to do. "Do you work here a lot?"

"Only on weekends."

Adam has always got on best with Swan, mostly because Swan keeps to himself. He doesn't care about Adam, doesn't grumble when the poor kid does better than him in class, just generally does his work quickly so he can get back to gazing quietly out the window.

Why he's so damn talkative today is a mystery.

"Why?" Swan asks.

"Why what? Why weekends? Because that's when I have time and Boyd gives me hours."

"No. Why do you work here?"

Adam turns to gape at him. Surely Swan knows Adam wasn't born into money like the rest of the student body. 

"It pays the bills," he says. "Some of us have to actually bust our asses to get what we want. Not that you'd know anything about that."

"No, I wouldn't, would I?" Swan asks, and there's that thin smile again.

Adam wants to bite his own tongue. He forgot.

Swan, if what's said is true, didn't grow up in the lap of luxury. His mother married a rich man a few years back and he got grandfathered into the money. Before that- well, it's obvious isn't it, what before that was. People who look like him can only come from one thing.

His mother, to put it politely, was a rentgirl. An escort. A woman of the night. No one's quite sure which she was, only that she  _was_. There's a rumor Swan's not even his real name: it's what his mother went by back when she was still for sale.

There's a rumor Swan is sometimes for sale.

"I can ring you up now," Adam says, face heated.

Swan is barely paying attention when Adam leads him to the register. He's tapping away at his shiny new iPhone when he hands Adam his credit card. Adam tries not to think about what kind of act might have paid for that iPhone.

"That's it?" Swan asks.

"All done," Adam confirms, wanting this GQ cover model to hurry up and get out of his workplace. Swan's smell is starting to get to him. Adam doesn't know what a brothel smells like but he figures it’s a lot like Swan: cologne, alcohol, and sex with an undertone of human sweat.

Adam's face is growing progressively hotter.

He expects Swan to leave then. The keys are hanging in the ignition. All Swan has to do is get in the car and drive off.

He lingers with the ominous air of someone debating how to phrase something heavy.

"It's good to see you're not getting beat on the regular anymore," he finally says.

An icy wind whips through a magical forest.

"Excuse me?" Adam asks.

Swan looks at him, unblinking. One finger is poised over his cellphone. He meant what he said.

If it were anyone else, Adam would have lost his job right then and there. 

Swan is the exception, because Adam and Swan have something in common.

Reds and purples appear on Swan's dark skin regularly. He wears bandages like decoration. When Declan gets beaten up, it's the talk of the school. When Swan turns up with a freshly mottled bruise, it's no news at all.

There's a callousness to Henrietta. People look but don't mention injuries clearly caused by human hands, not when it's not the first or second or even third time they've shown up. Especially not when those injuries show up on someone most prefer to call  _undesirable,_  code for  _minority_  or  _white trash_  or  _juvenile delinquent_. Problems don't need solving when the victim is a problem themselves.

Don't mention it. Keep things hush-hush. Solve your own problems.

That's the way things are.

Why is Swan trying to mess with that?

“I heard you got a restraining order.”

Adam can hear leaves rustling.

“Sign here, please,” he says tightly, pointing at a line on Swan’s receipt.

Swan picks the pen up off the counter and signs with a flourish. Then he gets in his pretty, little Fiat and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Swan takes a deep breath, trying to clear away the psychic taste-smell-feel of death. He wants to take a shower and scrub it off his skin, even though he knows that won't do anything. It's not a real, tangible thing. It'll only go away when the source does and, for weeks now, Parrish has been exuding the stuff like particularly offensive pheromones. 

At least, up until an hour ago, Swan thought it was Parrish.

"Get out of my car," Swan says to the figure currently occupying his passenger seat. The man turns his head to look at Swan.

Death does not suit Barrington Whelk.

He's barely recognizable after the trampling. His face is misshapen, dark with bruises that never got a chance to fully form. His hands are broken in multiple places. There's a piece of rib poking through his mangled and dirty sweater.

"How is it one of my worst students ended up being the only one able to see me?" Whelk asks in that smug tone of his. The real question is why Aglionby only has one teacher for a required course. Swan was stuck with him for three years because no one thought to hire an additional professor.

He wasn't even a professor, Swan's sure. There's no way he had time to get a degree before he started teaching.

"I know how to look," Swan says coolly. "Now get out. I don't take requests from people who murder their best friends."

Whelk scoffs. "You shouldn't believe everything you read."

Swan hasn't read shit about Whelk.

"I could repeat his last words to you," he warns Whelk. "I won't but I could."

That seems to have an effect on the bastard. His ruined face grows pale at the thought of Czerny's last words. Swan hopes, fleetingly, that they haunt Whelk as much as they do him.

Most places are more polite than Henrietta. They wait until Swan settles in before they whisper terrible happenings of the past, present, and near future. Swan's very first night in the dorms, Henrietta demanded a witness, even if that witness was four years late.

The same dream kept coming, night after night. A raven emblem, a perfect match for the one on Swan's own V-neck sweater, tattooed itself on the inside of Swan's eyelids. His roommate complained about being woken up by Swan's nightmares until, finally, there was no roommate.

In his spare time, Swan combed through the library's old yearbooks, searching for faces that matched the boys in his visions. Both white: one tanned, confident, cocky; the other pale and meek. It took time. Yearbooks couldn't show the more memorable parts, like how the cocky boy enjoyed it as much as he hated it or how the meek one, as he lay dying, cried out not for his mother but for vengeance.

Swan found them in 2005.

The victim was a boy named Noah Czerny.

The murderer was Swan's new Latin teacher.

Swan started drinking long before then. At home, his mother looked aside when some of her rum went missing. She knew her son had troubles.

Here there was no wine cabinet to rifle through. After two weeks in Henrietta, two weeks spent bearing witness to seven past murders, decades of rednecks and rich men beating their wives and kids, and every day staring into the face of a remorseful killer, Swan started looking into acquiring something harder than cough syrup.

As it turned out, the only people willing to sell a fake I.D. to a fourteen-year-old were a cocaine-snorting Bulgarian kid and his Ukrainian friend.

So, no, Swan hasn't had to read anything about Whelk. He didn't need to hear the rumors about Dick Gansey finding the body of an Aglionby student in the woods (fuck Henrietta's woods- shit, fuck  _Henrietta_ ) to guess who it was.

It's not his business to find the bodies or stop the violence. He's there to bear witness, nothing more. Now and again, that means not getting in the way of things. Like, say, the murder of a Latin teacher by one Adam Parrish.

Swan leans over to open the glove compartment. He keeps his eyes on Whelk as his hand closes around what could easily pass for a Glock 27.

He levels the gun between Whelk's eyes.

Whelk hasn't been dead long enough not to flinch. "You think that will hurt me?" he asks.

Swan knows for a fact it will.

"You wouldn't," Whelk says.

Swan really would.

Salt sprays from the barrel of the gun and Whelk shrieks. He bursts through the window, spraying glass everywhere. He claws at his skin, his corporeal form twisting and flickering until it vanishes with an agonized scream.

Swan sighs. The salt will only keep him down for a day or two. Whelk's not done deteriorating yet.

He looks at the damage to the Fiat. The passenger window will need replacing. It completely shattered when Whelk went through it. There's pebbles of glass all over the seat and dash.

Swan doesn't know if Parrish does that kind of repair. Honestly, he doesn't care. He's not going back. 

Swan brushes glass from his right shoulder, wrinkling his nose at the smell of hot, Jimson weed-infused salt, and puts the car into drive. He'll deal with the repairs tomorrow.

He heads back to the dorms. He goes straight to Skov's room, shoves him onto the bed, and tells him he has fifteen minutes to fuck him, so make it quick.

Skov doesn't ask questions. Swan wants hands on him _now_. Skov's prepared to give him that. He grabs on to Swan's hips and arches up to kiss him, determined to make this something other than a quickie. Swan's too strung out to stop him.

They share a beer afterwards, then Swan's out without even a thanks because that's how this works: Swan gets what he needs and Skov gets what he wants. And maybe it doesn't last long enough and maybe they're starting to dip into new territory, and maybe Swan's terrified Skov's been serious all along and this is it, he's the One.

Swan pushes these thoughts aside. Another time.

He goes back to his dorm and gets spectacularly drunk. He falls asleep with a bottle in his hand, the memory of a boy's cheek caving in playing across his mind. 


	12. Chapter 12

The first one Swan remembers is a whore choking to death, a john's hands around her throat. He doesn't know who she is and he never finds out.

That image stays with him: hands around a delicate throat, crushing the life out of it.

 

* * *

 

The girl is his age. Her hair is straight and black, her skin reddish-brown. Her thin dress is streaked with a dark liquid Swan, at eleven, knows is blood.

She speaks a language Swan doesn't recognize. It sounds indigenous.

"I can't understand you," he tells her.

That doesn't stop her. She continues babbling, tears springing up in her brown eyes.

He can't help her.

She's dead.

"Go away," he says.

She doesn't. She stays for days, invisible to everyone but him, crying and wailing her sad story. Every time Swan tells her he doesn't understand, she cries louder. The blood grows darker on her dress as her face becomes bloated and her stomach distended. She's decomposing before his eyes.

Then, one day, she's gone.

That same day, a Warao girl is fished out from under the bridge over the lake. She's been dead a week. The news doesn't show her face. It would be disturbing for the viewers.

Swan doesn't get the luxury of that kind of censorship.

Seven years later, the ghosts still come to him. Swan makes a point of not learning new languages if he doesn't have to. He doesn't want to help these temporarily lost souls. He doesn't know how. They want someone to reassure them and help them move on. There's only so many times Swan can say, _you're dead, someone killed you_ before it wears on him, the same platitudes over and over again. He doesn't have it in him to be a counselor to the dead.

If it were just ghosts, he might try. But he wakes up from nightmares that feel too real, turns on the news or checks the papers, and finds proof his dream was someone else's waking nightmare. Or he doesn't and has to know that, somewhere out there, a little girl is getting raped, a mother is beating her children, an uncle is sneaking into his nephew's bedroom. He has to live knowing his only clue is a child's nightlight on a bedroom wall, the sour smell of a dumpster behind a restaurant, the feel of a cigarette burning into his inner thigh.

The dreams get worse as he gets older. He understands more, becomes less trusting. His mother says he's growing up too fast. Physically, too. They move out of the _casa_ when customers start cornering Swan and asking how much.

It gets better when they leave Maracaibo. The Hammocks has fewer people and less crime. It's beautiful. Swan's mother hopes the dreams will stop in this new country.

They don't.

Swan's mother meets a man named Antonio. They move to Key West. Antonio can't handle Swan's nightmares.

They move again.

After that, it's a litany of boyfriends and moves, not always in that order. Swan's mother keeps hoping her son's dreams will go away if they find a good enough neighborhood. It's not like the boyfriends are financing anything. They have plenty of money until they don't.

Jeffrey comes into their lives when Swan is thirteen. He's wealthy and good to Swan's mother. He wants to start a family with her. Swan's mother wants that, too. The dreams aren't going away and neither are the ghosts, but Jeffrey needs to stay. Swan's seen his mother struggle for so long. 

"It will only be for a few years," his mother says as the three of them sit at the kitchen table Swan still thinks of as Jeffrey's. She slides the boarding school pamphlet closer to her son. Anyone looking in through the window would say Swan is the one who doesn't belong. His mother, pale and beautiful, is clearly this rich man's foreign bride. "You'll be able to come home during the breaks."

Swan unfolds the pamphlet, looking at the pictures of ivy-covered brick buildings and rolling Virginia hills. Aglionby Academy is an exclusive, all-boys school. It's on the Ivy League track.

Swan folds the pamphlet back up. He looks at his mother and fakes a smile.

"I'll go."

Swan didn't need a father anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

If Swan had it his way, he would have gone four years without making a single friend. Aglionby is an exile for him, not a vacation.

He protects himself. He files the ethnic off his name, becomes Swan. Simple, easy to say. It's not a complete lie: it's his father's name. That's how they do it here.

He finds quickly that changing his name isn't enough. He doesn't look like them, not the Henrietta residents nor the Aglionby students. His skin's too dark, his clothes too tight. He has an accent.

Plenty of the boys here do. Classes ring with the sounds of London and Montreal and Madrid, New York and California and Georgia. The difference between those and Swan's is his speaks of loose morals, of late nights and filthy sheets, of pleasure at an affordable price.

Most of Aglionby doesn't recognize the accent, not yet. They hear the Spanish but not the accent woven through it. Their fathers know it, recognize it in the women they take to bed but never home. All their sons know is it doesn't quite belong to the daytime. It excites them while also filling them with hot shame. It makes them say things, assume things.

Kavinsky is protection. He's an ass but what's his is his and few people cross a mobster's kid. 

There's a reason their kind of people have always run together.

 

* * *

 

Of all the places he's lived, Henrietta is one of Swan's least favorite. The locals have always been leery of him, like they are anyone who doesn't look exactly like them. It's fine to party with raven boys and fuck them but talking to them in daylight stretches these rednecks' not-considerable charity.

Swan's used to it. Everywhere he goes, people watch him warily. He gets followed in stores and questioned walking down his own street. People want to know what he is before who.

You don't get used to that kind of hurt. You let it sit inside you and fester until you're angry, until you're bitter, until you hate the world as much as it hates you.

Swan is not good or kind. Outside of his body, he's not really worth wanting. He's more than fine with that, it's what he wants.

Everyone wants to know what Swan can do for them. He's an experience, a checkmark on a list. When else are these sheltered rubes going to meet someone as dark as him? When else are these spoiled rich boys going to touch someone so handsome?

He won't let them in. He doesn't need their transitory interest.

He will not be used. He will be no one's sexual conquest.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, you,” Skov said the first time they met, extending his large, square hand. He smiled arrogantly, looking like a football or rugby player, all blocky and muscular and very American. “I just  _know_  we’re going to be good friends.”

If manners weren’t a thing, Swan would have spit in his face.

It’s been nearly four years and Skov’s the only constant in his life. Morris left and Kavinsky’s gone. Proko, the first one, not the puppet Kavinsky breathed to life, has been gone since the summer before junior year. Jiang’s come and he’ll go, like Lynch, like Dvorak, like Rasmussen.

It had to be Skov who stayed, the asshole.

Skov, who annoyed the hell out of him. Skov, who would never leave him alone. Skov, who acted like the two of them were a foregone conclusion and not just a faint possibility.

 

* * *

 

 

Winter break sophomore year, Swan spends a few days with Skov. He doesn’t really want to but Skov asks and Swan reluctantly accepts. Mostly he's feeling pissy because Kavinsky's staying with Proko and Morris is going to Aspen, and Skov's the only one who offered anything.

Swan is his mother’s son, immeasurably beautiful and refined, and oh-so-prone to self-destruction. His mother’s better now. She’s a respectable woman with a husband and two kids by him. It’s nothing to shunt her disagreeable eldest to the side, the one who used to wake her up at night screaming about visions of rape and murder.

"Spend a few days at school," she tells him when he calls. "In a week, you can come home. Jeffrey just needs a few days with the children."

So Swan ends up watching Skov's family shovel food into their big, blocky faces and they're so polite in such a non-WASPy way that Swan can't believe that no one ever told him Skov had a functional family and two happily married parents.

"Swan?" Mrs. Skovron asks when he introduces himself and Swan doesn't miss the lip quirk on Skov's older sister. She's in her first semester at Amherst. She looks like a basketball player version of Skov, boney and large, taking up more space than any person should. Skov bickers with her and it has no bite.

No one comments on Swan’s excess melanin or asks where he’s _really_ from. Skov doesn’t try to explain anything away when his sister nudges him and makes a joke about waterfowl that Swan doesn’t get. Mrs. Skovron sets him up in the guest bedroom. She asks if he plays sports and doesn’t seem too surprised when he says he’s more interested in cars.

It's all very surreal.

They call him Blake. He lets them. Skov distances himself from the local kids who do that, the ones who say Blake the way you say "what's in this?" the first time you try a dish you don't like. There's a past there, one Swan's not yet privy to, one that makes _Blake_ an unpleasant, even painful word.

But this is his family. Family rarely understands the allure of a new name and the opportunity it brings to reinvent yourself.

"They love you," Swan says, somewhat in awe. They’re in Skov’s bedroom. It’s clean in an unlived-in way. Skov could live here if he wanted. He’d rather stay in the dorms. His father, an alum, thinks it’ll help build character.

Skov makes an ambivalent sound.

"Skov."

"They have no idea who I am. They think I'm crazy," Skov says. He looks at Swan. It's a frank look, honest in a way Skov rarely is. "Maybe I am."

Skov's life could be perfect if he wanted it to be. He's a legacy. He could be one of Aglionby's golden boys with their perfect hair and perfect skin and excellent grades.

Instead he lives a life divided because he wants the sports and the experience but he also wants to get high with the public school kids and race Lynch and tell Swan he's the best thing in this crappy little town. Skov grew up here and he could love it. Instead, he despises it, hates how stifling and backwards it is, how the only real excitement can be found in foreign cars and even more foreign boys.

Swan should loathe him for wanting to throw it all away. Instead, he thinks he understands. Just because life deals you a good set of cards doesn't mean you have to like them.

"You want to watch TV?" Skov asks.

“Why not,” Swan says.

They pilfer bourbon from Skov's parents' liquor cabinet and drink it while they watch some show too inane to follow. It’s quiet, the sound from the TV turned down low. Swan doesn't move away when Skov's arm brushes against his own or when his hand comes to rest on Swan's thigh.

This is the day Swan starts to consider Skov a friend.

 

* * *

 

 

Swan's a bit fuzzy on how the whole thing started. As far as he can figure, Skov was detailing all the things he'd do to him if Swan let him and Swan, instead of being disgusted, said, "Show me".

Not one of his prouder moments. Probably. Swan can't remember. 

Skov, in direct contradiction to how incredibly irritating he is, is a really good lay. It'd be criminal to give that up simply because Skov's personality needs work.

People says he's out of Skov's league, like Swan doesn't know. They say he can do better, he doesn't have to settle. What they really mean is, pretty boy, why don't you give me a hand job in the back of my souped up GT? Why waste your mouth, your hands, your ass on someone you call a friend and who will look you in the face come morning? Why don't you debase yourself to fulfill our white supremacist, master and slave, urban fantasies? Why, Swan, do you act like you deserve something more?

K wants Swan, too, only he doesn't want  _Swan_. He wants to own Swan and control him. Sex is a vehicle for that.

Swan's not on board.

Until K wants Swan for Swan, all of him, he will never have him. Swan will not let himself be hurt to inflate a rich boy's ego. He will not be a story to tell, the dark guy with the unfairly pretty eyes, or a side item. You will have Swan and only Swan or you won't have him at all.

Swan will never be someone's toy, to be tossed aside when they grow bored. When he's with Skov, he's in control. It’s on his time, done his way. He will not be used. Skov gets that. He wants but he doesn't expect more.

So yeah, they fuck and they don't talk about it. They're not together. It's not like that, Proko,  _God_. Stop fucking smiling, you idiot.

They're not together. 

 

* * *

 

 

Things go pear-shaped at the end of sophomore year. K doesn't want anyone to know but he's anxious about going back home and facing his father, who probably has mafia connections and definitely has no great love for his son.

Alleged son. Kavinsky Sr. apparently has doubts about Mrs. Kavinsky's fidelity and, oh, if that's not Swan's favorite game. K's not asking for advice, though. It would ruin his carefree, fuck everything that isn't sex, drugs, or dreams demeanor. He expects Proko to come with him to smooth everything over and, of course, Proko goes, they're attached at the hip.

Swan thinks nothing of it. He assumes he'll see them in the fall, alive and well.

He never sees Proko again.

 

* * *

 

"You want me to read you your fortune?" Skov asks before taking a long pull of his beer.

"What?" It's Jiang's go-to response to Skov. That and "fuck off".

Dvorak's made off with a girl with tits pushed up to her neck, Rasmussen's cleaning his nails with a pocket knife, and K is chatting up two giggling brunettes. A couple members of the rugby team and some of the local boys are setting off sparklers down by the water's edge. Swan doesn't know where Morris got to or if he's even here.

Everyone's wasted or high and if they're not they're going to be. There's beer cans and cigarette butts littering the sand. People keep disappearing to go fuck on the beach or under the trees.

It’s a nice night.

"Yeah. You Chinese people are into fortune telling, aren't you?"

"I don't know whether to be impressed by your attempt at worldly knowledge or offended," Jiang says drily. He doesn't like Skov and Skov knows it. If there's anything Skov loves, it's fucking with people who do not want to be fucked with.

Skov grabs Jiang’s hand and makes like he’s reading the lines on it. He screws up his face in what he must think is a mystical expression.

“You’ve already met the love of your life and he-”

Jiang punches him in the gut.

"What the hell was that for? I was telling the truth. This is why K keeps me around."

"To be a fortune teller?" Jiang asks, scowling. He's a smart one to assume Skov is messing with him.

"Yep. Then he got to know me and realized how wonderful I am and look where we are now."

Now they're drinking Budweiser around a lakefront bonfire and Jiang thinks Skov is crazy. It's all over his face.

"Tell him, Proko."

"Tell who what?" Proko asks. He's been staring at the fire, intent on toasting his marshmallow (Kavinsky had laughed and laughed and laughed when Proko pulled the bag out, looped an arm around his crooked shoulders and given him a wet smack on the cheek) until now, completely unaware of the excitement around him.

"Never mind," Skov says. "Fucking airhead," he adds when Proko's attention is diverted by the girl sitting next to him. She's been eating marshmallows straight out of the bag all night. It's why she moved to sit next to Proko.

If Swan had known it was the last time he'd see the real Proko alive, he would have done something, said something. Made the night last somehow.

But he didn't and he couldn't and Proko's been dead a year and the puppet isn't even here to laugh in their faces and tell them it's okay.

Swan wants to know more than anything what happened to Proko. Did he do something wrong and K decided enough was enough? Was it an accident? A whim? Why can't Swan feel it, what happened to him, was it so bloodless?

Swan hates K for doing it, can't even begin to understand what kind of megalomania could make him think it was okay to just replace a human being like that.

K admitted it once, exactly once, after Swan confronted him, half-expecting to go the way Proko had if he said the wrong thing. Swan had demanded an answer, a simple yes or no. K had stared at him for a long few minutes, completely blasted- they both were- and said yes, he was right, this Proko wasn't the same. Then he told Swan his life would end the day he let the puppet know.

Swan still doesn't know what to think of that.

 

* * *

 

 

By junior year, Swan's mother knows about Skov. He has a standing invitation to her home in Reno. She should know better but doesn't. She remembers the difficult child who used to wake up shaking from dreams of murder and rape, the one whose father didn't so much walk out as never had anything to walk out on in the first place. She just wants someone to accept her eldest child. Swan wants that, too.

He just doesn't necessarily want that person to be Skov.

It feels too forced, too convenient. Swan puts no effort in and Skov's right there, waiting, want written in every action.

The want isn't new. Lots of guys want Swan; girls, too. He has his pick. Even among Kavinsky's crew, he could pick better- better face, better body, better manners. Shit, he could have K if he wanted.

He doesn't. You could not pay Swan to have sex with K.

(You couldn't pay Swan to have sex with anyone.)

Skov disappears. That's what tips the scales.

He's been doing it as long as Swan's known him, says he's been doing it longer, since he was ten and his family moved to Henrietta. It's easy to overlook if you don't spend much time with him. Skov's irritating. He makes people wish he'd go away, so when he does, a few minutes here, a half hour there, no one minds.

Unless you're next to him, watching him, when it happens. It's not easy to hide a 5'10", 180 pound kid up and dissolving in midair, not when you're watching, waiting for it to happen.

It's just as abrupt when he returns. Same spot, a little shaken by whatever he's just been through. Swan knows that feeling. It's never easy coming back to normality.

Swan doesn't mind grounding him.

 

* * *

 

 

"How do you know when you're in the right time?" Swan asks. Things have eased between them now that Swan knows Skov isn't fucking with him. He still doesn't like Skov but tolerating him isn't such a hardship.

Skov grins. "You hate me. That's how I know I'm home."

"Everyone hates you," Swan says. He can't help smiling around the words. There's something about this idiotic white boy that makes him giddy. "What makes me so special?"

"Oh, you're always special,  _costillo_."

"Don't call me that."

 

* * *

 

 

There was one boyfriend Swan thought was going to stick around. 

Jorge was a gentleman. He treated Swan's mother like a queen, buying her flowers and chocolates, taking her on dates. Treated her like her past didn't matter. Jorge liked Swan. He helped him with his schoolwork and asked how his day went.

The first time Jorge stayed the night and Swan had a nightmare, Jorge took Swan into his lap and rocked him, making soft shushing noises. He told Swan there was nothing wrong with him, that the dreams made him special.

Jorge stayed with them for three months. He was kind and he was good. He made Swan's mother happy. He made Swan think  _this is what having a father's like_.

Then one day Swan came home early to find Jorge stuffing the money Swan's mother kept in a shoebox in her closet into a bag. Jorge looked up. He saw a horrified child looking. He walked across the room and cuffed him, told Swan his mother needed to learn to hide her money better. Welcome to the real world, kid.

"You told me I was special!" Swan cried because he was thirteen and stupid.

"You're not," Jorge said. "You're just a whore's son."

Then he left with everything they had and Swan learned what it was really like to do without.

When things got bad, Swan's mother told him one day they were going to meet a man who loved Swan as much as he loved her. They were going to live in a big house with a big car and eat  _quesillo_  every night. 

One day, things would be good.

Swan's stopped waiting for that day to come. Jeffrey is as good as it's going to get.

He's a good man. That's all Swan's mother wanted: a good man. Not a kind man or a gentle one, certainly not a handsome man or an interesting one. Just a good man. One who would provide.

"He's the reason you're at that school," she likes to remind Swan. "He paid for your car and your clothes. That's more than he ever had to do."

It's so easy to send the troubled child away. Look at the CFO, see how good he is to his wife's son. He doesn't have to do all that. The kid's not even his own blood.

It's like people actually think Jeffrey's doing it for Swan and not because the money is nothing and it keeps the new Mrs. Contee happy. Send the boy away, pretend he isn't the mark of a sordid past, keep him quiet. There's something wrong with him. He's disturbed. He scared his mother as a child with his dreams. Aglionby has a nurse, doesn't it? The valley has medical professionals. Send him away and forget he exists. Ease the ties that bind him to his mother.

All she wanted was a man who could provide. That's what she got.

Now Swan sees his mother for a few days in the fall and winter, spends a week with her in the summer. The Aglionby dorms are open part of the summer. He spends the rest with friends or on trips, anything to keep out of Jeffrey's way.

 _Yes, Mamá, I'm doing fine. I'll come home in a few weeks._  After Jeffrey has left on a business trip and the kids are at summer camp, when she's alone in that big, old house save for the maids and the cook.

She never learned to drive.  _Won't you take your mother somewhere? It's so lonely without you, mijo._ There's nothing to do with everyone gone.

When he arrives, it’s  _come sit with Mamá, tell her everything, remember when you were little and would tell her everything?_

 _This boy, he's good to you, no? He's rich, no? He thinks he loves you, no?_   _Be careful with those. They don't last so long._

She winds her long, dark hair around her finger as she looks at her son. Everything's practiced with her, calculated to come across exactly the way she wants it to. She spends her time exercising or working on her beauty routine. She's not foolish enough to think there's no expiration date on what she has. One day, surely, Jeffrey will find someone younger and prettier. There was a generous prenup. Mrs. Contee is no fool.

_Are you still having those dreams, mijo?_

_No,_ he lies.

They sent him away because it was too difficult for him to stay. He dreads coming back but he doesn't want to worry his mother. She hasn't developed frown lines yet. One day. Her life has not been easy.

They talk. Swan spins stories that barely resemble his life. She doesn't want to know the truth. She wants to hear about his grades and his dreams, about Skov. She likes the version of Skov he creates for her.

She doesn't know who K or Proko are. She couldn't pronounce Dvorak if she tried. She has no idea what they get up to on the weekends.

Sometimes, when he's with her, Swan forgets his stories aren't really his life. He doesn't prefer them to reality; he just forgets.

When she runs out of things to talk about and Swan runs out of lies, his mother likes to hold his face in her hands and tell him about his father.

"He was a beautiful man,” she says, searching his face for the LUZ student who left and never came back. "You take after him."

In looks, maybe. In everything else, Swan hopes he doesn't. His father was neither good nor bad, just a man stuck in a difficult situation. He was the kind of man who knocked up a call girl and had the decency to own up to it. He hadn't enough money to provide but he had American citizenship. That and his name were the only things he ever gave his son.

"I could help you find him," Skov once offered. He was slumped over Swan's dorm bed, watching Swan tear through his closet, looking for the bottle of Grey Goose he knew he had stashed in there somewhere. "If you wanted."

Swan knew how to find his father. Swan was not that common a name. He just didn't want to look, not now. Someday he might.

He shook his head.

Swan’s phone dings and his mother smiles indulgently as she heads into the kitchen. She's just happy he has friends. 

It's Skov.

_hows the fam?_

_Same old, same old_ , Swan replies. A smile tugs at his lips.

Skov isn't ashamed of Swan and what they have. He's never treated Swan like a trophy, either. He lays it on thick most of the time but it's different, somehow.

Swan knows he has a complex. It's the way he grew up, what he knew, what he saw.

It doesn't matter what they call you behind closed doors if they look at you like a stranger in public.

_when r u coming back? rasmussens fixing to punch that Maarten kid. its gonna be fucken glorious._

_Sounds like it,_  Swan texts back.

The replies come swiftly:

_when r u coming back?_

_miss u_

It hits Swan like a hurricane. He wants to be with Skov and the stupid, perfect family that he hates. He wants K and Jiang and all the rest. He wants to destroy something. No, that's not it. He wants to be destroyed.

_He thinks he loves you, no? Be careful._

If she only knew.

 

* * *

 

 

Swan does not care for Aglionby politics. Once he gets in with K, though, the politics go from being background annoyances to everyday drama. He still doesn't care for the nonsense but when K's hurling insults at upperclassmen one day and leering at Henry Cheng the next, he doesn't have much choice.

Cheng is a try hard entrepreneur's son who thinks he can change the world. What does he know of inequality, this rich man's son? He's co-opting his parents' struggles and he doesn't see the irony in rising to the privileged's level to get them to change.

The only thing likable about Cheng is he knows he doesn't belong. That and his face.

Jiang, God love him, wants to fuck the boy.

Jiang's never said as much, but if there's one thing Swan can recognize, it's lust. Jiang and Cheng are gagging for each other's cocks, have been since before Jiang up and left.

K and Proko derive way too much fucking enjoyment from making Cheng fume. Swan has to admit, it's pretty entertaining. Cheng's crime is being dumb enough to let Jiang go, and K revels in being the one to take his place.

Jiang either doesn't notice or care that he's a pawn in Kavinsky's game. K has a collection of people he's won over. Jiang's entertainment value has lasted longer than most. Cheng's pigheaded. He thinks he still has a chance, as though K will misstep one day and Jiang will come running back to him.

Jiang, Swan has come to realize, is pigheaded, too.

Henry Cheng is annoying but he's got nothing on Gansey.

Richard Campbell Gansey III rolls into town freshman year and instantly becomes Aglionby's darling. He asks the right questions, answers the right questions, and generally makes the professors cream their pants because here is a student who gives a damn. Gansey eschews living in the dorms, instead buying a warehouse in town and converting it into an apartment. The professors like him, the police like him, everyone likes him.

He befriends Ronan Lynch back when Lynch is still stable and has hair long enough to run your fingers through (and fuck Ronan Lynch, who looks at Swan like he's nothing, who races him in that BMW and wins, who turns cold and brutal, and vicious after one loss-  _bienvenidos a mi vida_ , fucker- and still doesn't understand what K stands to offer). Gansey buys a Camaro, an old, ugly, down and out Camaro that sounds like destruction, and he never uses it, a midlife crisis come early.

Swan hates him on sight. He has too much money, too many manners. He's too perfect, too attractive, too good. He's going to be someone someday, a face splashed across a campaign banner or an election sticker.

"The accent's fake," Skov gripes as they watch Gansey schmooze yet another upperclassman. Gansey's just made captain of the crew team despite being average height and build. It's precocious for a sophomore to lead a whole team but no one mentions it because this is Aglionby's premier golden boy. "He's from D.C. for fuck's sake."

Swan files this information away for later, adding it to his list of pretentious things to hate about Dick Gansey. Among the least offensive is the fact that Gansey fakes his accent.

The worst is that Gansey is ignorant. Swan can't stand ignorant people.

Dick Gansey has no idea the kind of power he's got in his hands. He acts like some sort of prince, walking around Henrietta like it belongs to him, and yet he doesn't see.

A ghost, a dreamer, and whatever the hell Parrish is. An emissary. A conduit. Dick Gansey's nothing, yet he's got all of them in his thrall. He's a trust fund baby with too few worries and too many hobbies, and an irrepressible pedantry that exasperates even his followers.

Swan despises him. K wants to ruin him.

He never gets the chance.

 

* * *

 

 

In June, Swan turns to the puppet and asks if it thinks an executioner is the same as a murderer.

"No," the puppet says. This is a game Proko and Swan used to play. Volleying questions off each other, deep things the others wouldn't care about. Pretending either of them had a moral compass to speak of. "Do you think murder's always wrong?"

Swan shakes his head. "Is it still free will if you tell someone they're going to do something?"

"Are we being hypothetical?"

K did an excellent job recreating Proko's eyes. Swan tries not to look at them too often. He glances at K, who never minds the attention.

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not." The puppet looks at K, too. "If he's going to do it anyway, what's the point in telling him?"

Swan groans and shoves him.

"Don't Skov me, asshole."

The puppet grins. He grabs Swan's water bottle and chugs. He has the gall to grimace at the taste. Ass. Oranje's fucking delicious. "You really like him, don't you?"

"I'm not talking about this with you."

"Sure, you aren't."

At times, it can be very hard to remember the puppet isn't Proko.

 

* * *

 

 

There are some deaths Swan can't feel.

He's never figured out why. It's not like there's anyone to ask.

Violence, violation, vitiation. These are the things Swan sees when he closes his eyes, what he feels when he gets too close to his classmates, what he tastes when he opens his mouth in town. There are very few secrets you can keep from Swan.

But there are some.

He couldn't even feel it when it happened. He had to watch as a dragon made of fire, a magnificently impossible thing, consumed someone who should have been immortal.

 

* * *

 

 

On July 6th, Swan takes a screwdriver to Proko's plates and swaps them with his own. He takes Proko's keys and slips them onto his fob.

On October 4th, he gets on the highway. It's eleven a.m. No one's on the road. The sun glints off Proko’s hood.

Swan turns the cruise control on and climbs into the passenger seat.

He just does it.

It feels right.

The only regret he has is that he survived.


	13. Chapter 13

"I didn’t think you’d stay around after everything,” Morris says, unconcerned as always by how his words come across. He sucks in a lungful of smoke, relaxed from the tightly wound wraith who joined them at this sad excuse of a party.

Jiang shivers. It's early September, yet there's already a bite to the air.

"I'm going to tell you something and you're not going to like it." Jiang probably won't. Morris never had any great affection for him, and tonight he's bitter, all hard edges. "Kavinsky got off on being a homewrecker. He wanted you because he knew it would drive Cheng nuts. Parading you around? That made his goddamn day." A trail of smoke escapes Morris' parted lips. "I always kind of figured it was the same with Lynch."

It might have been. Kavinsky always operated on multiple levels.

Morris' brushing off of Jiang's merits should have stung, Jiang knows. He has more to offer than being a one-time member of Cheng's court. He likes to think Kavinsky valued him. He wouldn't have made all those pills if he hadn't.

Jiang takes the joint Morris passes him.

"What're you doing back here anyway?” he asks. “The funeral was weeks ago."

Morris shrugs. "Never too late to pay your respects. 'Sides, I had people I wanted to see."

Jiang glances at him. That doesn't sound like Morris.

Morris pulls a wry face. 

"I'm going to give you a piece of advice, Jiang," he says. "Stay away from Lynch. Gansey, too, but Lynch especially."

Skov laughs. It's loud and obnoxious, impossible to ignore.

He and Swan are sitting next to each other on the hood of Swan's Golf. Swan's leaning in, bare centimeters separating him from Skov. He's grinning bright and easy into his bottle. It's strange though not discomfiting to see them getting along.

Jiang tilts his head back to look up at the night sky. There's too much light pollution to see most of the stars. He prefers it that way. 

"Why are you telling me?" he asks. "I'm not searching them out."

"You might be. The others will listen to you. At least, Swan will."

Jiang studies Morris. He barely knows him. Morris moved to New England not long after Kavinsky first invited Jiang to one of his parties. Morris could be doling out common sense or he could be talking about something more, something Jiang can’t be expected to fully understand. Kavinsky always did surround himself with extraordinary people.

Morris sighs. “I told K to stay away from Lynch. People get killed around that guy. You’d think more people would’ve realized that by now.”

"It was a suicide," Jiang replies, skipping over the part where Kavinsky murdered a hitman and kidnapper.

"And? People don't exist in a vacuum. I won't be the first to say Lynch pushed K over the edge." He isn't. Swan's said similar things. Thing is, Jiang never thought Swan liked Kavinsky all that much. Apparently, he dislikes Lynch more.

"I don't believe that."

"Cool. Those are your thoughts, though."

"Morris!" Skov calls out and Jiang is grateful for the interruption. Swan's looking at him shrewdly. He must have asked Skov to say something. "What the fuck are you doing back in this shithole? New Haven not enough for your sorry ass?"

"You know it."

"Heard you got one of the local girls pregnant."

"Slander," Morris yells back cheerfully. "Like I'd ever touch one of these yokels without a fuckin' rubber."

They sling words back and forth. It’s almost- almost- normal. The problem is Morris. He looks like he's about to crack around the edges. Being here, with them, is too much for him.

Morris leaves an hour later. He doesn’t tell them where he’s going and they don’t ask.

“Remember what I said,” he tells Jiang before he goes. “It’s important this time.”

_Stay away from Lynch._

Like Jiang was planning on doing anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

Jiang doesn't harbor the same resentment towards Ronan Lynch as Swan and Skov do. The guy’s dangerous, true. It's just not a deliberate dangerous. More like a poisonous animal who can't help you got hurt because you took a bite.

They say he used to be different before his father died. Jiang doesn't know. He didn't know him then.

"Did you feel it?" he asked Swan years ago. Swan's funny about gossip. Sometimes he'll tell you nothing, other times he's as good as a Wikipedia page.

"Yes. Mostly the residue," Swan says. "It was in the next town over." He's folding a piece of paper over and over again, fingers skittish and sloppy. Kavinsky's good but there are still side effects to using what he dreams. "The Lynchs have a farm in Singer's Falls." He makes a face. Jiang has heard Swan grew up in worse.

"His head was bashed in," Proko adds, leaning over. "They never found the guy who did it."

"They won't," Swan says with certainty. He tosses his folded-up paper to the side. It's gotten too small to keep abusing. He takes the fresh sheet Proko tears out of a notebook for him. "That man isn't stupid enough to get caught."

“Both of you shut up," Kavinsky commands and they do.

Kavinsky wasn't pursuing Lynch then. He was interested in a lazy way, sizing up Lynch for his next conquest.

Take what is Cheng's, take what is Gansey's. The prizes come willingly, don't think of themselves as belonging, which only makes the conquest easier. It's a game. Kavinsky's life is a series of games.

Jiang tells himself he doesn't miss Cheng thinking he belonged. People like Jiang don't belong with people like Cheng.

Kavinsky's ignorant enough not to see that.

 

* * *

 

 

Cheng's waiting outside his dorm when Jiang returns.

"I'm not coming back," Jiang snaps, already feeling tired. Cheng makes him feel tired, the extra effort to hide the unpretty parts of him eating away at his already pathetic energy levels.

"I know that."

Jiang sits down next to Cheng on the stoop. He sighs, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He takes a drag, holds the smoke in his lungs, and feels almost human.

"Could you not?" Cheng asks.

Jiang ignores him. Cheng came to bother him. The least he could do is let Jiang release some of the stress he's causing.

Two years ago, when Jiang first came here, Cheng offered him a place in his circle of friends. That was before Kavinsky, before Jiang learned why it was better not to have normal friends.

"You wanted to talk?" he prompts.

"Yeah. You doing okay?"

"No," Jiang answers honestly. He never is. "But I'm not the one six feet under, am I?" Or languishing in a hospital bed. Goddamn, Jiang misses Proko. Kavinsky was always going to have a dramatic exit but Proko? Jiang was expecting him to fizzle out slowly, be the resident school fuckup till graduation, not this.

"You need anything?"

Jiang laughs. "We're not friends, Cheng."

Cheng looks at him in that terrifyingly level way of his. It's like he's saying, _I see you, all the messed up, awful bits you think you can hide._

"Since when?"

"Since..." Jiang shrugs. "Forever, I guess." He fiddles with his cigarette, tapping the ash onto the grass.

The character for Cheng and Jiang are the same. For some reason, Cheng thinks that gives them a connection, as if there aren't millions of people out there who share the same name. It's a name but, to Cheng, it might as well be a brand.

Cheng thinks it's his mission to save Jiang. From himself, ironically. Jiang's body is Jiang's biggest enemy. What he does to it is no worse than what it's done to him over the years.

“Why do you stay with them?” Cheng asks. _Why don’t you come back to me?_ he means.

“They’re my friends.” They're not but Jiang knows how to make a lie sound like a truth.

“They’re going nowhere.”

“I don’t want to talk about this with you.” He really doesn’t. Cheng’s got a black and white mentality about people. If you're not going somewhere, he wants nothing to do with you. Except for Jiang. Jiang is the sole exception to be redeemed. Possibly, Jiang’s just one of the million pet projects Cheng has before he’s used Henrietta for all he can and leaves for somewhere colder and kinder. “I made my choice.”

“It’s a terrible choice.”

“It’s still mine.”

Swan once said he’d let anyone and anything ruin him, so long as it was on his terms. Life is a fucking joke, so why not ride this bronco until it launches you back into the dirt where you belong.

“When are you going to see this isn’t good for you?” Cheng asks, quiet and measured. It sounds like a lecture from the kind of mother Jiang never had. “You’re digging yourself into a hole, Jiang, and one day you’re not going to be able to climb your way out.”

“Well, you’ll just be there to offer me a fucking hand, won’t you?” Jiang snaps back, refusing to look Cheng in the face. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to be some sort of compassion project?”

This is how it was always going to be: Cheng was going to conquer the world and Jiang was going to run himself into the ground before his shitshow of a body could do it for him.

Cheng’s eyes are like burning coals.

“No, that’s not what I want.”

Jiang ought to apologize. There's a thrum of irritation every time he’s around Cheng. His skin feels too hot and tight. He's tense and far too quick to snap.

Jiang knows what it means. He was like this with Proko at first and Dvorak, too. It's jittery nervousness and hot attraction rolled into one, except, since it's Cheng, there's that extra need to push him away because Cheng is too stubborn to let things be. A year and a half and here he is, acting like Jiang's something worth having.

Jiang puts his cigarette to his lips. His hand's shaking. Cheng doesn't notice.

Cheng picks up a rock and tosses it underhand, watches it bounce on the grass. He’s regretting coming here, Jiang can tell. Good. Maybe he’ll actually leave Jiang alone now. Maybe he’ll realize Jiang is one person he can’t fix.

“Have you figured out what you’re doing next year?” Cheng asks, switching tactics. He’s swallowed his anger or pushed it aside. It’s a habit of his. Jiang hates it, wishes he’d be straightforward with his emotions for once.

“Getting away from here,” Jiang tells him.

“And going where?”

Jiang scratches at the tattoo on his right deltoid. When people ask, he says it means  _summer_. And _Swan_ means  _water_ _bird_.

He shrugs.

“I’m applying to Yale and Stanford,” Cheng says. “All the Ivy Leagues. I’ll have William & Mary as my backup.”

“You don’t want to go back north?” Jiang shouldn’t be getting involved. He should be pushing Cheng away. It’s nice, though, to talk about this, to act like there’s some semblance of normality left in life.

“The big names are down here so no. I thought about going overseas but I’d rather stay here.” He looks at Jiang, expecting some kind of response.

Jiang doesn’t have one. His cigarette’s dwindling to ash. Another few seconds and his fingers will burn.

"Seriously, you'll tell me if you need anything?” Cheng says. “I didn’t come over here to fight, I swear." Cheng's eyes have turned earnest. He thinks Jiang is broken up over Kavinsky. Cheng wasn’t even here over the summer. All he’s heard are rumors.

Jiang is numb, resigned. He knew it was going to happen someday. Hell, there are times Swan doesn't come to school and Jiang thinks he and Skov have gone too far, Swan's become one of his own missing people, vanished in the middle of the night with no one to look for him.

He'll be in the woods. They always are.

It's not so easy grieving for the inevitable. You just gotta say _fuck it_ and keep going on with your life. Not everyone's gonna get a happy ending, especially not people like them.

"I'm going inside," Jiang says, standing up. He tosses his cigarette to the ground and grinds it under his shoe.

He runs his tongue over his teeth. Cheng's watching his every move. Should he say it? He should.

"Keep an eye out for Lynch," Jiang warns because Cheng's been moving in on Dick Gansey. Jiang doesn't care, not really. It won't last. Cheng’s going to be a politician someday, Canada's first Asian Prime Minister, then ruler of the goddamn world. He's going to live in a McMansion with his beautiful Korean wife and 2.5 kids, and he's going to be happy because he got what he always wanted. Gansey’s just a passing fad. "Bad things happen to people who get close to him."


	14. Chapter 14

Due to his least favorite seating arrangement- alphabetical, Adam gets to spend AP English sitting next to Skov. It’s fucking delightful, made even more so by the fact that Skov is apparently actually good at AP English and has taken to muttering answers to the professor’s questions under his breath. He’s usually right, although he once tried to say  _Catch-22_  was an allegory for the Axis Powers winning World War II, which no. Just no.

Swan, sitting next to Skov, snorted at that and turned from the window to flick him on the temple.

“Wrong timeline, dude,” he said, making Adam feel stupid for not realizing Skov had come to class blazed that day.

Other than the occasional stoner answers, Skov is  _great_  at AP English and is constantly helping Swan cheat. He needn't bother. Swan got in the class on his own. He can do the work. The professor either doesn't notice or doesn't care. When it comes to these two, not many people do.

Adam does not think of himself as a kind person but he kind of wants to keep a watchful eye on them. It has to mess you up, seeing your friend bite it, even if you thought it was a fireworks accident. Prokopenko never returned to Aglionby and they wouldn’t understand that, either, but they had to feel the loss.

He feels almost sorry for them. Skov and Swan have to go through their last year of school without two-fifths of their friend group. They barely tolerate each other yet are stuck sitting side by side in class.

It has to suck.

 

* * *

 

The new Latin teacher gestures at Swan as he's exiting the classroom. 

"Hold on a minute, Mr. Swan-Ortiz. I'd like to speak to you, if I may."

Swan stands next to Greenmantle's desk with its neat stack of papers and framed photo of a woman who must be his wife. He fingers the strap of his backpack and does his best not to scowl. He doesn't like this Professor Greenmantle. He feels altogether too much like a portent. Of what, Swan isn't sure.

"It's Swan. Just- Swan."

"My apologies," Greenmantle says completely unapologetically. "I was looking over my predecessor's notes-" and here Swan has to stifle a snort because seriously? Any creditability Whelk had fizzled out the day Dick Gansey tripped over Czerny's corpse. "-and I found them rather in line with what I'm already seeing. You are aware that you have to pass my class to graduate?"

"I passed last year."

"With a D." Greenmantle says "D" like it's morally offensive. "English isn't your native language, if I'm correct?"

Swan doesn't answer. Greenmantle is gracious enough to pretend the question was rhetorical. 

"I hesitate to say it, but you would think someone who speaks Spanish would have less trouble with its progenitor."

 _I don't like you_ , Swan thinks. _At all._

Progenitor is too nice a way to put it. Latin is the language of Spain's conquerors. For centuries, it was used by people who raped, pillaged, plundered, and dominated their way across three continents. Greenmantle made a big speech at the beginning of the year about using Latin to rifle through dead men's papers. What, exactly, does he think Swan stands to learn from these dead men? He's seen plenty of atrocities. He doesn't need to read about them, too.

And there is that other thing.

Every so often, Swan will hear whispers. Mostly, he doesn't understand them. The parts he does are always in Latin.

"You're lucky," Morris told him one cold, fall day. The air had been filled with the scents of burning leaves and pumpkin spice. "The whispers never stop."

Swan could go the rest of his life without learning any more Latin.

"You'd think," he says to Greenmantle. "May I go now?"

"May I go now, _sir_ ," Greenmantle corrects. Swan's face hardens.

"May," he says, filling the words with as much contempt as he can muster, "I go now, _sir_." He makes sure to pronounce the "r" with exceptional clarity.

"Yes, you may," Greenmantle says. He waggles his fingers cavalierly. "Now run along before you're late for your next class."

Out of pure, unrefined spite, Swan skips it.

 

* * *

 

Jiang coughs and it sounds like death.

"What's wrong with him?" the professor asks, deferring to Skov because this professor is an old timey racist who doesn't approve of the recent diversity of Aglionby's student body. Never mind that Jiang's allowance is probably larger than the professor's salary.

"Cold," Jiang rasps.

"He has a cold," Skov relays.

"Again? Do try not to get any of your classmates sick, Mr. Jong. We wouldn't want the actual scholars to miss class."

"You should really go back to the dorms," O’Leary says, turning around in his seat. He grimaces like he's afraid he'll catch whatever Jiang has.

Jiang shakes his head and drops it on the desk.

"If he misses any more class, he'll get kicked out and lose his student visa. Then he'll have to go back to Pyongyang," Skov says, smirking.

"Fuck you," Jiang groans.

"You're Korean?" Carruthers asks because Carruthers is an idiot.

"No," Jiang says, giving him a nasty look.

“What’s wrong with him?” Goldberg asks, nodding at Jiang.

“What isn’t?” Swan mutters.

Jiang tiredly flips him off. Someone was clearly having a laugh when they scheduled him a class with these two fuckchucklers.

Skov nabs him after class and tells Jiang he's spending his afternoon with him and Swan. Jiang's opinion, it would seem, is not needed.

They pile into Skov's RX-7. At first Jiang thinks they're heading towards the fairground. He hasn't been back since they got rid of the Lancer Evos and he doesn't really want to go. He's done with that place.

Skov and Swan must think the same because they don't go there. They hit the highway and end up in some dusty, little town, the kind with one stoplight, where everyone knows everyone.

Jiang and Swan sit on top of the car and Skov leans against it. He starts telling them about another reality, one where the hitman lives and drives an Evo with THIEF plates. Kavinsky still dies because suicides always stay the same, and Proko still gets in the accident.

It's not a pleasant reality and Jiang realizes Skov didn't bring them out here to tell them about it. This is his way of killing time. He's trying to salvage the remains of what they were, forgetting that he and Jiang were never anything.

Jiang doesn’t know why he believes Skov about these things, but he does. Skov will disappear for a few hours, then come back with wild stories about timelines and alternate realities where things are different but fundamentally the same. There’s even a reality where Jiang is a normal burnout and Swan doesn’t see violence every time he closes his eyes. It’s nice to hear about, even if it’s not a reality they will ever get to live.

His phone buzzes. It’s his mother, asking if he took his medication. She sends him packets of traditional medicine every month, stuff he never takes. He tells her yes.

The only thing that ever made him feel better were Kavinsky’s pills. They’ll run out soon and it’ll be back to a cocktail of drugs he won’t be allowed to drink or eat grapefruit with, not that he even likes grapefruit. The doctors will tell him he needs to quit smoking and get his weight under control, and here, have iron supplements because why the fuck not.

 _Your father sent you some money_ , she adds. Like a couple grand of spending money every month will make up for the fact that Jiang's piece of shit father won't leave his wife or let his elder son, the one he was  _so_  happy to have when he thought his wife couldn't have kids, use his name. But, hey, at least he's not a deadbeat. At least he keeps his mistress in a comfortable apartment with everything she could ever want, save the only thing she's ever wanted.

"I need to take this," Jiang says, though he doesn't.

He hops off the car. Skov's and Swan's eyes are on him as he walks away. They're going to talk about him once he's out of earshot, so Jiang pretends to call his mother. He listens to the dead silence of his phone and it's the most comforting thing right then, that nothingness.

He wishes, for a moment, that everything could be nothingness.

 

* * *

 

"He's not taking his medicine," Swan says.

"No, really?"

Swan scowls at Skov, stopping when he sees the anger and worry behind the sarcasm. He's known Skov for nearly four years now and yet he still sometimes forgets he genuinely cares about their friends.

"You knew," Swan says, wanting confirmation.

Skov folds his arms across his chest and nods stonily. 

"We can't make him take it," he says.

"No?"

"He has to do it on his own."

Swan doesn't agree. He's also the only one out of the three without multiple prescriptions, so the point is moot.

"How many pills do you think he has left?" For some reason, Jiang never fucked around with the pills K made him, despite them being ten times more volatile than anything coming out of a pharmacy. K was a fucked up kid with no idea what he was doing and Jiang put his health in his hands. Now he's gone, Jiang is getting worse, and Swan isn't qualified to deal with it.

"If he's rationing them...none."

"Fuck."

"Yep."

There's nothing else to say, really, so they lapse into silence. It's chilly out, though not cold like it should be with winter approaching. The coast has gotten cold weather but it's warm here in the valley, though nothing like the heat Swan grew up in. He only misses it on the bleakest days. He's grown accustomed to the cold after so many years here.

Swan's little finger is brushing against Skov's back, warm through his uniform shirt, and he doesn't remove it. He will once Jiang comes back. He doesn't want to remind him of what he's lost. Swan is kinder in his actions than his thoughts.

"What are you going to do," Swan asks, "when I'm gone?"

"Pray I'll see you again," Skov says. "Get a job, make money. Live."

The words are flippant, yet there's a grief in his eyes Swan wasn't expecting.

"And then?"

"If you're asking me to kill myself for you, I won't. That Romeo and Juliet shit's not in me." Skov scratches his jaw where there's stubble forming. "There's always the alts. I'm not gonna give up the chance to see you again."

"How long do I have?" Swan asks.

"That's up to you."

"You're the one who kills me."

Skov shakes his head. "Only because you ask. We made it to eighty once. We've made it to middle age a couple times."

He stands up, dusting his shorts off. He offers Swan a hand. Swan takes it.

"It's up to you, _chamo_. I'll do whatever you want. But you better believe I'd rather have you here with me than in the cold, hard ground."

 

* * *

 

Jiang's picking at his lunch when Cheng drops his tray down across from him. It must be important if Cheng's talking to him somewhere so public. People are already looking.

"I need to talk to you," Cheng says, ever direct.

Jiang stabs his fork into his Salisbury steak and squints up at him. "Okay."

Cheng takes this as an invitation to sit. It's not.

“I saw something,” Cheng says, voice dropping low. Jiang's stomach twists. “Something Parrish did. You remember those slates falling off the roof the other day?"

Jiang remembers the mess and the groundskeepers cordoning it off. He nods.

"They fell on Parrish. At least, they should have fallen on him. Instead they," Cheng pauses, licks his lips. Jiang looks away. "They fell around him in a circle. There was dust everywhere. None of it got on him. Lynch was right there. He saw the whole thing and his face, you should have seen it. It was like he was expecting it."

“I thought I told you to stay away from Lynch,” Jiang mutters. If Cheng knows what's good for him, he'll stay the fuck away from Lynch.

“I know. And I thought that was an odd thing to say." It's really not. Jiang's pretty sure most of the school can guess the kind of antipathy he, Skov, and Swan have for Lynch right now. Cheng's too practical to consider that, though, and Jiang's warning had shit-all to do with what's between him and Lynch. He wouldn't have given the warning if he didn't think Cheng could see partway through it. "So, I'm going to ask: do you know anything about Parrish?”

Jiang knows plenty about Parrish. White-trash-turned-Aglionby-student-turned-other. He’s living over a Catholic church, even though Skov says he’s not religious. His old man used to hit him, now he’s emancipated. Is this what happens in small towns?

“He runs with Dick Gansey and Lynch. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means weird things happen.” It means yuan gui and psychic’s daughters, and a Latin teacher dying in the woods. Swan didn’t need to see the body. He felt the residue on Parrish, Gansey, and Lynch the day after Whelk disappeared. It felt right, what they did, he told Kavinsky and Kavinsky laughed and laughed.

Cheng's studying him like he wants to ask something else.

"You should probably go," Jiang says.

"Why?"

"People will talk." Jiang nods to Cheng's friends, who are waiting for him. They're whispering amongst themselves, almost certainly about Jiang and the threat he presents to Cheng's reputation.

Cheng hesitates, still wanting to say whatever it is. He sighs.

"It was good talking to you."

"Was it?" Jiang asks.

Cheng gives him a complicated look. "Yeah," he says. "It was."

Then he walks away.

Jiang watches him go. Cheng's immediately accepted back into his group of friends. They obviously cherish him. They're a good bunch, he knows, the kind of people who are going places. Unlike Jiang.

He gets up, dumping the rest of his lunch in a trashcan on his way out of the cafeteria. He thinks about waiting outside his next class and the eyes that would be on him, his fellow students marveling at  _Jiang_  being early for class, and decides it's too much.

He goes back to his dorm and falls onto his bed, hands automatically reaching for his headphones. He's been listening to the same playlist for days, all slow, sad songs about heartbreak and depression. 

Is that what he is now? Depressed? As if he needs another diagnosis.

Jiang curls into his soft blanket. It's warm and in desperate need of washing. Jiang doesn't have the energy to do it, so he ignores the slight smell and obvious stains. He focuses on the music and the throbbing in his joints, filtering out reality with its lack of an awake Proko, a living Kavinsky, and the sheer, bright, wonderful happiness they once brought him.


	15. Chapter 15

When Jiang needs to think, not just stare at the wall or the ceiling and let his mind go blank but _think_ , he gets in his car and drives. His preferred destination is nowhere, thirty, forty, fifty minutes on the interstate before taking an exit and turning around. He blasts his music, bass turned up until he can feel it in his bones. Elbow on the windowsill, one hand on the wheel, knee holding it in place. No cruise control. It's hand and foot all the way, motions so practiced they're thoughtless.

It's nothing like racing. When Jiang races, he's there. He's engaged with the other driver. His heart pounds in his ear and he feels the engine howl.

This is muscle memory. It's a release. It's proof that Jiang can do something, even on his bad days. He's not confined to Aglionby and Henrietta. He can leave anytime he wants.

Today, Jiang gets on the interstate. He cranks up the music, flipping between stations rapid-fast. There's nothing good on and every song's irritating, so he turns the music off. He opens windows and lets the wind roar in his ears.

A few miles outside of Churchville, his phone rings.

Jiang clicks End before it's even rung twice.  It's the third time today but he's not going to block the number. He'd rather hang up every time, give the man hope that he might pick up the next time.

Jiang hasn't talked to his father since before he left for America. At first, he was angry at the man who let his wife and the threat of scandal dictate what happened to his son. Now, he's just tired.

There are things in everyone's lives that are better left unsaid. Awful, terrible things they have seen, said, thought, or done that they wish could just disappear. These things can't, of course, so people hold them close to their chests and call them "secrets".

Jiang wishes he were so lucky.

He  _is_  a secret.

 

* * *

 

Before he leaves Tianjin, Jiang's life is a series of arguments.

His mother and his father's wife argue over the phone. Mrs. Ding will rant while Jiang's mother bows her head and acts the good, feudal second wife she wishes she were. Jiang will pretend not to listen when his mother answers the phone but, like all children, he hears every word.

"She doesn't hate you," Jiang's mother tries to tell him. "She's mad at your father."

It doesn't make him feel better, not when Mrs. Ding says Jiang can't go to Nankai with her son, then as good a school as Zhangjie, then a local school. Jiang's clothes can't be as nice, he can't have as big an allowance, he can't be seen with his father in public or associated with him in any way.

Jiang and his mother move to a different subdistrict. Jiang's father doesn't visit. He's too busy, too concerned with toeing the Party line. He's on the up and up, Jiang's mother says, resignation in her voice.

Things are easier without Mrs. Ding nearby. Jiang misses being able to see his father and his brother every so often. He talks to them on the phone sometimes, but it isn't the same.

Then his father's wife turns Zhangjie against him, not that Zhangjie ever had a backbone, and being far away isn't so good anymore. Word gets out and suddenly everyone at Jiang's school knows what he is. They whisper about sham marriages and doctored birth certificates. It isn't the kind of association anyone wants. In the space of a few days, Jiang goes from being the boy with connections to a politician's dirty little secret.

The au pair worries about him. 

"He hasn't got any friends," she tells his mother, "and he's tired all the time. He's dizzy in the morning and nauseous at night. His cough keeps coming back, worse every time."

"A change," she says in her crisp Pretoria accent, "would do him good."

When he hears the words _Aglionby Academy_ , Jiang doesn't hesitate.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, new kid," David (not his real name) Tran hisses, leaning over another student's desk.

Jiang points to himself, unsure whether Tran means him. It's the first day of school. How is Jiang to know who's new and who's not?

"Yeah, you," Tran says. "What are you doing after school today?"

English still feels flat and strange on Jiang's tongue. His words come out clumsy, his pronunciation skewed.

"I have no idea," he tells Tran.

"Excellent," is Tran's reply.

Tran is second-generation Canadian. He's from Abbotsford, which Jiang learns is just outside Vancouver, his favorite subject is American Government, and he wants to go into law when he grows up. His parents own a chain of spas, he likes Coldplay, and he thinks Henrietta's a bit boring, don't you? Jiang nods along to everything. Tran's English is fast and full of contractions. It's hard to follow.

Tran invites Jiang to sit with him and his friends. It's an easy decision, made even easier when Tran finds him in the dining hall and steers him through the lunch line, chatting away. Jiang doesn't catch half his words. Tran doesn't seem to care.

"Yo," Andy Ma says when they approach the only table not absolutely dominated by white kids. He cocks an eyebrow at Jiang, who feels instantly self-conscious. "Cheng's going to love him."

Tran snickers. He sits down next to Ma and starts introducing Jiang to the boys sitting around the table. Already, there's a conversation forming about European politics.

"Cheng", Jiang soon finds out, is not the rather wimpy Brian Cheng from Biology but  _Henry_ Cheng, a patently ridiculous boy with fiery black hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, and a politician's handshake. 

Jiang, for the first time in a long time, can't stop smiling.

 

* * *

 

The first few months, he does well. Cheng and his friends are great. They show him around Aglionby, help him with his classwork, and invite him out on the weekends. Jiang feels like he can settle here. He can thrive.

Happiness has always been a fleeting thing where Jiang is concerned.

His cough comes back. His head feels like cotton and his joints like fire, and he's tired, so tired. Jiang has trouble keeping up with the coursework. He starts missing class. And, wouldn't you know, these boys who care about school catch on real fast. They ask where Jiang has been, notice when his cold lasts all through November and into December.

"You should go to the nurse," Park tells him. "You might have mono."

"You're coming down with something? This is, what, the third time this month?" Tran asks, the worry blurring into frustration.

"Are you okay?" Cheng asks, day after day, and somehow that's worst of all.

Jiang can see their friendships unraveling. With every passing day, they're a little less happy to see him. Soon, they stop inviting him to things, start telling him to get his own notes, it's not their fault he couldn't make it to class.

"If you can't be bothered to help yourself," Andy Ma says at the end of a particularly brutal week, when Jiang asks, just _asks_ , whether they had that Latin test or not, "you shouldn't expect other people to help you."

 _I'm trying_ , Jiang thinks but there's no real way to explain that this is better, that being away from the smog and the problems at home is helping, that he was so much worse before without also explaining that this isn't a one-time deal, this is _Jiang_.

So he doesn't tell them. He lets them think he's languishing rather than existing. The excuses build and build until they stop believing Jiang and he stops asking them to. He won't hold on to people who so obviously want to go. It's no fun being friends with the sick kid. Jiang would know. It's no fun being the sick kid.

A gulf spreads between Jiang and his friends. It grows until right before winter break, when Jiang looks up at a lunch table of near-strangers and thinks, _huh. Were we ever really friends at all?_

 

* * *

 

Jiang's in the school bathroom rinsing his mouth out when Joseph Kavinsky walks in. His presence isn't really a cause for concern. They only know each other from a handful of chance meetings, mostly in places like this. Jiang's stomach enjoys rejecting itself and Kavinsky is partial to nosebleeds.

"Again?" Kavinsky asks, like he isn't washing blood out of his sweater.

Jiang nods tiredly. He splashes water on his face. In the mirror, his eyes are still worryingly red.

"Here," Kavinsky says, setting something on the sink. It's a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash. Jiang doesn't recognize the brand.

"Thanks," he says, feeling self-conscious over his pronunciation. They say Kavinsky has an accent, too, from some place called Jersey. Jiang can't hear it.

"No prob. This fucking dry air, man." He grins at Jiang, who's heard Kavinsky's problems have more to do with Lady Caine.

Jiang smiles back.

 

* * *

 

The next time they run into each other, Jiang's painting porcelain like it’s his goddamn day job. Kavinsky's waiting when Jiang opens the stall door. His sleepy, double-lidded eyes are unconcerned. There's blood drying around his nostrils.

"Try this," Kavinsky says, handing him a blister pack after Jiang’s spit in the sink. Jiang can't read what’s printed on the back.

"Dramamine?" he asks. It’s definitely not Dramamine.

"Something like that. Listen, I'm having a party tonight, if you want to come."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's gonna be me and a couple friends. Some townies. I heard you have a Supra. You ever raced it?"

Jiang nods. You don't buy a sports car if you don't plan on using it.

"Good. Bring it."

 

* * *

 

 

Kavinsky drives an ugly little Lancer Evo (sorry not sorry, sports sedans are the _worst._ Why drive something that doesn’t even look like it belongs on the streets?). Jiang beats his ass the first time they race.

Kavinsky isn't mad. He seems genuinely thrilled, tells Jiang it's rare for anyone to best him.

Jiang doesn't doubt it. You have to be fearless to win against Kavinsky. It's not the way he drives- he's honestly not that great- it's the reckless, dangerous otherness about him. They say his dad's in organized crime and his mom's a cokehead. He might actually be dangerous. 

To these Americans.

Kavinsky's watered down connections aren't that impressive. Jiang could sing him a song of a country where the politicians are scarier than the thugs.

It might be Kavinsky's pills or it might be the race, but Jiang feels more alive, more real than he has in weeks. He's not trying to mold himself to fit a group or pretending he cares about issues he knows nothing about. He's just being himself, showing the parts he wants people to see, and it's great, so great.

When his "friends" keep noticing things Jiang never wanted them to notice, the gaps, the absences, the unwillingness to explain certain things, Jiang doesn't have to think about where to go.

Kavinsky already knew. Kavinsky didn’t care.

He falls in with Kavinsky. He stops returning Cheng's texts, stops talking to him in the halls. He stops sitting with the Vancouverites at lunch, stops hanging with them on the weekends. He tells Brian Cheng and Andy Ma he's had a change of heart when they come looking for an explanation. They don't seem too hurt by the news. Disappointed, mostly. It isn't long before they have nothing to do with him and he them.

Cheng doesn't get the memo, keeps fucking trying to associate, not realizing he was the problem in the first place. Rather, Jiang was the problem but Cheng couldn't let it be, always so worried, always so nice. He'd leave if he knew the truth. Jiang's nothing like him. He doesn't care about fixing society's ills, not when he's got so many of his own. He's not interested in petitioning the school for change. He was only ever in it for friends, for companionship, for Cheng.

Jiang puts his Supra to good use, learns which streets are speed traps and who, if any, among his classmates can race. He tries everything Kavinsky has to offer, the booze, the pills, the people. Some nights he tries so many things he can't feel his fingers or his face and, rather than worrying, he breathes out a cloud of smoke and thinks, _yes, this is what it's about._

And Jiang becomes one of Kavinsky's. A notch in his belt, plunder stolen from Cheng's coffers.

This time, Jiang promises himself, he will make sure not to get attached. When Kavinsky changes his mind and discards him somewhere down the line, Jiang will be ready, numb, and willing. He won't open up the opportunity to care when rejection comes.

He was careless, taking Cheng’s affability for actual affection. He didn’t come to America to make friends, he needs to remember that. He's here to go to school, to make good on a clean slate. He's supposed to use this place where no one knows him or his background to get ahead. To become someone.

Kavinsky isn’t going to help him do that but. Jiang doesn't have to be afraid. Who cares who his father is when Kavinsky’s mother does lines in front of her son’s friends and Swan’s mother is an honest-to-God ex-whore? Money comes from all places. Just because Aglionby Academy attracts old money and parvenus doesn't mean the children of crooked businessmen and even more crooked legislators aren’t also welcome. Jiang’s money is hardly the dirtiest.

Get in, get out. Aglionby is a stepping stone to the rest of his life.

Why did Jiang ever think Cheng could be a part of it? He was always going to end up with someone like Kavinsky.

 

* * *

 

"Swan-" Kavinsky starts. Jiang tenses.

"No," Swan says, not even looking up.

Kavinsky wants Swan. Kavinsky wants everyone and everything.

The day Jiang stepped over, he became Kavinsky's. There was no formal declaration. It was just understood. He'd left one prince for another.

Swan's got it on his head he can hang with Kavinsky and be his own man. He doesn't see the contradiction. It's not a question of whether Swan wants Kavinsky back. Belonging doesn't begin or end with the sexual. Being sexual isn't even a thought for Kavinsky. He's kind of fucked up that way. 

It's part of the appeal.

 _You will never have me._ Swan doesn't have to say it. It's in his eyes and the jut of his jaw.

It must amuse Kavinsky. People like Kavinsky don't usually like being refused. Every time, Jiang expects him to punish Swan, show him who's in control, who owns whom.

He's known Kavinsky for almost a year, been one of his for a handful of months, and he still doesn't fully understand him. It's not like anyone but Prokopenko is interested in explaining things to him.

"Trophy," he hears Rasmussen call him when talking to Morris.

"Why does it matter? You'll be gone soon enough," Swan sniffs when Jiang dares to ask a question.

Dvorak is constantly watching him. Skov keeps trying to get a rise out of him.

Prokopenko thinks these little displays bothers him. Truthfully, Jiang doesn't give a shit. He was vetted by Kavinsky himself. His righthand man likes him. Jiang is doing fine.

He doesn't miss his old group. It's not like he cared what most of them thought.

(He misses Cheng. A little.)

( _I'll be your secret. Let me be your secret._ )

Jiang's doing fine.

 

* * *

 

Swan is idly checking out Skov's calves because of course he is. Jiang doesn't have much to say about Swan's taste in manchildren other than that it's clearly the worst. Aglionby is not hurting for good-looking dudes. Choosing Skov is scraping the bottom of a very full barrel.

Jiang would ask but he doesn't want to find out Skov gives really phenomenal head or something equally scarring.

"Take a picture," Dvorak quips. "It'll last longer."

Swan sneers but doesn't stop looking. Very full barrel.

Dvorak pulls his beanie off and drags his hand through his blond hair. His eyes rake over Jiang, sending a skitter of fear through him. Dvorak, thankfully, stops at the eyes today. He gives Jiang a crooked grin before walking off. Jiang relaxes, glad he's not forced to extricate himself from an uncomfortable situation. There's nothing to be done about it: it's his word against Dvorak's and Dvorak's been here longer.

"What?" Swan snaps. Other than that one word, he's completely absorbed in the back of Skov's legs.

"Uhh..." is Jiang's very intelligent reply.

Now Swan's attention is focused on him. "You're judging me," he says.

"I'm really not," Jiang replies. That is exactly what he's doing.

"You think you'd be better?"

"What?" Jiang asks, confused. Does Swan think...? "Hold on- are you  _propositioning_  me?"

Swan studies him for a painfully long moment. Then he laughs, a deep, handsome sound. The tension in the air clears.

"No, no, I'd never. Sorry, I thought-" Swan waves his hand imperiously. "It doesn't matter."

Skov turns around, having heard Swan laugh. He grins at Swan, who raises a refined eyebrow back.

Jiang supposes he can see the appeal. Skov's got nice eyes. They're bright blue, a stunning contrast to his black eyelashes. He does, admittedly, have nice calves. Skov isn’t hideous. He’s just literally the worst.

(He’s not at all, not even close. Jiang’s met truly terrible people. Skov’s annoying, a little bit of an asshole, and a whole lot of a dick, but he’s never been anything other than devoted to Swan. And Swan is difficult and pretty assholish himself, so for Skov to break down those barriers, he's got to have a few redeemable qualities.)

How, when, or why the two of them started dating is no concern of Jiang's. They're together in this incredibly fucked up way the two of them seem to enjoy when they aren't at each other's throats. Although Swan probably enjoys that, too.

 

* * *

 

The first words Skov ever said to Jiang were, "that guy's going to kill himself", in reference to Kavinsky. In hindsight, it makes perfect sense. At the time, Jiang thought it was an odd way to phrase it. Most people would say “that guy’s going to get himself killed” or “that guy’s going to kill somebody”. But Jiang was new to the group and still feeling out the dynamics, so he didn't ask.

He knows better now. Skov's a dick but when he says strange things, it's worth listening. Jiang's never figured out what he gains from offering up what he does, since he clearly knows more than he says. 

Skov is not exactly subtle. Specifically, he's not subtle about his interest in Swan ("My life begins and ends with Swan," is one of the creepier things Skov's ever said, made even creepier by the fact that Swan smiled, small and pleased, when he said it.). Non-specifically, well. It's kind of amazing how blatant he can be without people realizing what he is. Not that Skov knows what he is.

"It's not like these things come with instruction manuals," he says when Proko points out that he's just told Tanner O'Leary his mother's going to get breast cancer. Granted, he phrased it in a way that could be interpreted as O'Leary's whiny voice being the root cause but who knows how good Skov's understanding of modern medicine is. "I could be completely wrong this time."

He's not. O'Leary gets called out of class a few months later to be told the news: Stage III breast cancer.

Dvorak, because he's horrible, gives Skov two hundred bucks.

 

* * *

 

The walls are thumping from the pounding bass. It's the kind of music you don't so much dance to as grind. Baby-making music. 

Jiang's not feeling it tonight. He's got too many substances mixing inside him, too little interest in the warm bodies upstairs. He'd rather be down here, leaning against the wall, watching couples do their thing.

"Aren't we boring," Kavinsky jeers, clapping Jiang on the shoulder before falling onto the couch across from him. Jiang shrugs and waves when Proko twiddles his fingers. "What, you been here all night?"

Jiang tears his eyes from the girl with the nose ring across the room. He shrugs again, not feeling up to words. He's enjoying the vibrations in his ribs.

Kavinsky's watching him. Jiang blinks. No matter how much Kavinsky takes, he always keeps his head. Jiang can't say the same.

"Do you want him?" Kavinsky asks, chin tilted up and eyes glinting dangerously. He has an arm around Proko. "I'll let you have him."

"W-what?" Jiang chokes out. He hadn't thought anyone had noticed.

Kavinsky strokes the corner of Proko's jaw. Proko preens at the attention. There's no doubt who he belongs to.

"Proko here is a bit of slut," Kavinsky says, smirking. "He has needs. Since I can't meet all of them, I like to loan him out."

Jiang's mouth is very, very dry. He takes a hasty swallow of his beer. Kavinsky watches him. Proko watches Kavinsky. He looks at him like he's mesmerized, hypnotized. Kavinsky has that effect on people.

"Do you want a demonstration?" Kavinsky asks. Jiang doesn't know what he means until he's popping the button on his jeans and sliding the zipper down. Proko's watching but Kavinsky's eyes, those deep, sleepy, sensual eyes, are on Jiang.

Jiang's nodding before he knows what he's doing.

Kavinsky smirks. Proko leans over him, pulling Kavinsky's cock out of his boxers like he's done this before and maybe he has, maybe they do this  _all the time_. 

Proko spreads his lips wide over Kavinsky's cockhead. Jiang's never seen anyone do this in real life and it is  _hot_. Proko takes Kavinsky deep, going so far his nose is pressed against Kavinsky's wiry curls. It doesn't look comfortable but Proko is clearly loving this, the attention, Kavinsky's cock in his mouth, Kavinsky's hand in his hair. Proko groans when Kavinsky tightens his grip and pulls.

Their eyes lock. Proko knows what he's about. This show might be for Jiang's benefit but Kavinsky comes first. Kavinsky always comes first.

Kavinsky's smirk is starting to fall. His hips buck upwards. Proko lifts a hand to steady them. Kavinsky huffs but it's a laugh, a gentle reproach. He yanks on Proko's hair, asking for a kiss.

Proko pulls off with an obscene pop that makes Jiang's cheeks burn even hotter. He looks at Kavinsky with such frank adoration, like being here, doing this is all he could ever want.

Jiang suddenly, unbearably, wants that look directed at him.

Proko sucks on Kavinsky's full bottom lip. He nibbles on it, groaning soft and sweet, and Jiang wants those teeth on him so much it hurts. He's leaning forward, straining where he stands, breath coming hard and dick harder.

Kavinsky pulls them apart. Proko wastes no time swallowing him back down.

"Good boy," Kavinsky says, murmurs really. He cups Proko's jaw, stroking his cheek with his thumb. "Such a good boy for me, always."

The sound Proko makes is  _vile_.

Jiang wants to know how Kavinsky is lasting so long because Jiang is about to come in his jeans right now. He needs a change of underwear posthaste. Kavinsky looks like he could go for hours.

Proko's head bobs up, down, up, down. He takes Kavinsky in deep, no gag reflex at all. He's groaning around Kavinsky's cock. It's obscene, it's depraved, it's the hottest thing Jiang's ever seen.

Kavinsky's starting to lose a bit of his control. His hips come up to meet Proko's face and Proko barely stops him, lets Kavinsky fuck up into his mouth. Kavinsky's breathing is harsh and unsteady when he separates them, cock an angry red.

He comes on Proko's face.

There's a minute that's just harsh breathing. Then Proko wipes the come off his face with his shirt, complaining to Kavinsky about warning a guy, Jesus. Kavinsky smirks and pats his cheek like the asshole he is. Proko scowls at him. 

He gets up off the couch, telling Kavinsky he's going to get a beer to wash the taste of dick out of his mouth. As he walks past, Kavinsky smacks his ass. Proko yelps, then continues on to the kitchen, grinning.

"So," Kavinsky says, turning to Jiang. His smirk broadens into his trademark wicked grin. "Are you in?"

 

* * *

 

Jiang fucks Proko. At first, that's really all there is to it.

He wants Proko and Kavinsky gives him to him. What Proko thinks isn't important.

Until it is. Until Proko tells Jiang nice things, sweet things when they're together, things he doesn't have to say. Kavinsky told him to be with Jiang. Everyone knows Kavinsky gets off on control and Proko wants nothing more than to be controlled.

Proko laughs when Jiang tells him this.

"K can't make me do anything I don't want," he says, thumb rubbing over Jiang's fingers. His hands are larger than Jiang's, strong and deft with prominent veins. There's a flicker of heat in Jiang's core whenever he sees those hands move. "And this I  _want_."

Jiang finds out Proko's a charmer. He's sweet and good with his words, caring and attentive inside and outside of bed. He genuinely likes Jiang as a person and as a friend, and sees no problem with making this a thing. Jiang is so very okay with making this a thing.

Proko reminds him of Zhangjie before, when they were still friends. Zhangjie wasn't too bright but Jiang knew what they were from the start. His mother always reminded him to call his father by name when they were at the big house. Mrs. Ding, his father's wife, would watch them shrewdly. It took years for the resemblance to kick in.

But, for a while, Zhangjie was the best thing in Jiang's life.

Now he's an asshole and Proko's in love with someone else, and Jiang's fucked in the head enough to not mind taking scraps. As long as he's getting something, he's content.

Contentment, Kavinsky would say, is boring.

Because of Proko, Jiang learns to trust again. Proko's as fucked up as he is. Jiang's not going to drag him down with his problems or his needs, or his inability to be a functional member of society for twenty-four hours straight. They want this, whatever they have, and no one's looking at them and thinking, _those two shouldn't go together_ ,because no one cares.

Proko is not handsome. He's barely even cute. But he's a good lay and a better friend, and Jiang is the happiest he's been since September.

 

* * *

 

The girl waiting for the light to change is looking at them.

Jiang recognizes her vaguely as the waitress from the pizza parlor in town. A local, not much to look at. Definitely not Jiang's type.

Skov informs him that she's special. Her mother's one of the town psychics, though she's not psychic at all.

"Kind of un-psychic, if you get my meaning."

Jiang doesn't. Most of what Skov says functions on a form of logic too slippery and convoluted for Jiang to bother following.

He snags one of the pills Skov's about to pop, looks at him stony-faced when Skov mock-protests. Today's Calculus. Jiang would rather sleep through it than feel Cheng's eyes boring into his skull every time their racist fuck of a professor's back is turned.

They've got twenty minutes to get to class. Thursday's the last day. None of the professors are going to get anything done this week, but they're still expected to be there. Kavinsky won't have shown up yet, probably won't until noon. Proko's already there and Swan is, too. Rasmussen is still facedown somewhere because senioritis is a seductive-ass bitch.

"Last night, am I right?" Skov says when the light's changed. The girl is long gone.

"Ungh," Jiang groans. He's not awake enough for Skov's miserable small talk. He wouldn't have even taken the ride if he hadn't been too wasted to drive home last night. Swan can get away with being plastered behind the wheel. Jiang really, really can't.

"K gave me this."

Skov tosses a baggie into Jiang's lap.

"What is it?"

"New batch."

Jiang inspects it. A dozen adorably pastel pills with his name stamped on each one. There are fucking flowers on the other side.

"Fucker."

"It's cute how much he cares." Skov smirks. Douche.

Turns out the pill Jiang took from Skov is a downer, not an upper. Jiang sits down at his desk and wakes up to the bell ringing and his classmates heading out the door. He curses his luck and scrambles to get his bag.

Oceanography is a snoozefest on a good day. Jiang is about to return to his nap when he sees Proko motioning toward him from the door.

 _What?_ he mouths to him.

 _K_ , Proko mouths back.

Jiang glances around the classroom. The professor's not paying attention. None of his classmates will give a shit if he leaves now. And fuck if spending time with Proko doesn't sound a shitton better than watching another National Geographic Special hosted by Jacques Cousteau.

Jiang walks out of Oceanography. It's not even a personal best, cutting class at ten o'clock in the morning. That honor goes to not showing up at all when his dorm is less than a hundred yards away.

He bumps fists with Proko on the way out the door. Proko grins. He catches Jiang by the waist, spins him around so his back is to the wall, and presses him against it. He kisses Jiang like eight hours apart has been torture and Jiang moans because, in a way, it has.

Proko pulls away too soon, leaving Jiang heady and out of breath. Jiang leans back against the wall. Proko leaves his hands curled around Jiang's hips absently. 

"We're going to get caught," he says.

Jiang hums, not really caring. He's been caught doing worse.

Proko looks gorgeous like this, lips swollen and shiny with spit. It hurts Jiang's neck a bit to look up at him from this angle. Proko's got a good six inches on him and, while Jiang enjoys the hell out of that height difference, it can be a literal pain to look up at him.

"Come here," he says, winding his arms around Proko's neck and pulling him down. Proko comes readily, willing as always.

They kiss, mouths fitting together perfectly. The hot slide of Proko's tongue against his own stirs an echoing heat in Jiang's groin. He could stay like this for hours, just him and Proko, ignoring the bullshit world outside.

Proko breaks it off, grabbing Jiang's wrist, and pulling him along down the hall and out the door. He's already chatting about K's plans for the day, all of which sound miles better than going back to class. Nowhere near as good as fooling around in the school bathroom, though. Jiang shoves that little hope down for another time. Kavinsky comes first. Kavinsky always comes first.

They get into Proko's Golf, which Jiang still thinks looks like something a suburban mom would drive, and peel out of the Aglionby parking lot. At the first stop sign, Proko pulls two tablets out of his pocket, dry swallows one, and offers the other to Jiang.

This time, Jiang makes sure to ask what the pill is before he takes it.

 

* * *

 

Kavinsky adores the fairground. Its charm isn't lost on Jiang. It's a crumbling relic of control, nature trying to reclaim what man forgot.

Kavinsky found this place and took it for his own. He turned it into a hangout spot and a battle arena. Last year, he had his Fourth party here. He hadn't asked for help setting up. Jiang can only assume most of it was dreamed.

Oh, yeah, did he mention? Kavinsky can do anything with his dreams.

The floodlights are on, turning the night into brightest day, lighting up all the dark corners of the fairground. It feels dirty and illicit, all of them together in this forgotten place, making it their own.

Jiang leans against Proko and watches Rasmussen play drive chicken with one of the local girls. She's good, fearless, pressing her gas pedal down when others would brake. The two cars approach one another, and she's giving no sign of letting up. 

Tires squeal and dirt flies as Rasmussen dodges. There's bright, sparkling laughter from the driver of the scarlet Miata. She kills the engine and jumps out, grabbing the pretty blonde who runs towards her by her belt loops and kissing her silly. 

Rasmussen shakes her hand and the Miata's driver smiles at him with a jubilance that can't be faked. She kisses her girlfriend again, savoring the taste and the openness of it. This is the only place she can be like this, in these areas Kavinsky has carved out and made a precarious paradise for those of them who can't or won't fit into the pieces of Henrietta to which they belong.

Proko's hand slides under Jiang's waistband. With his head tucked under Proko's arm, Jiang looks up at the washed-out sky and thinks, foolishly, that this could last forever.

 

* * *

 

"Why me?" Jiang asks in a moment of insecurity.

"You're a liar," Kavinsky says, though Jiang has told him no lie. "I like that."

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Proko, you're never going to believe-" Skov cuts himself off when he sees Proko's dangling a pair of shades off one finger. He's standing in the doorway to the den and looking at them like they personally offended him. "The hell are those?"

Proko tosses the white sunglasses into Skov's lap, then puts his head in Jiang's. His skin's flushed, his lips swollen. Jiang grins. It's a good look, even if he's not the one who put it there.

"What's wrong with them?" Jiang asks, digging his fingers into Proko's scalp. If he rubbed the hard spikes of Proko's hair between his fingers, the gel would break down and the hair would be so soft. Just, so soft. "They going to explode or something?"

Every so often, K fucks up a dream and it's not so much a mistake as a threat.

"Don't touch that," K will say when one of them reaches for a new dream. "It'll melt your face off."

"Stay away from my room," he'll order, pupils blown and hands jittery. "Don't you dare touch that fucking doorknob."

"We're going to take care of something," he'll mutter, grabbing Dvorak or Skov. "Don't wait up."

Jiang hopes this isn't one of those times.

"Lynch gave those to K," Proko says. 

Jiang relaxes. Not a danger, then. He leans down and presses his forehead against Proko's. Proko tilts his chin up and hums happily. He smells like the perfume of the girl he and K were tagteaming upstairs. K's still up there.

They know all about Lynch. That suicide attempt? Not deliberate.

Jiang found out in a roundabout way. Lynch's BMW bothered him. Something was off about it, the dimensions maybe. Jiang couldn't quite say what model it was. It was gorgeous, sleek and dark and powerful. He'd seen it lit up by his headlights often enough. He knew what that car could do.

That didn't mean there wasn’t something off about it.

"It's a dream," Proko said and Jiang knew instantly he was right.

Unease flickered in his belly. Proko never put it into words, what happened to him, but they all knew. Kavinsky's favorite had gone away and someone else had come back. A dream. Because apparently a person wasn't out of the range of things Kavinsky could create.

"I don't like him," Proko said. Jiang laughed. "I'm serious."

"The word you're looking for is jealous," Jiang teased, bumping their shoulders together. It was no secret Kavinsky was aiming to win Lynch over. Apparently he already got him a fucking car.

Jiang was a little jealous K got him a fucking car.

What Jiang knows now but didn't know then is Lynch's dream of a BMW belonged to a scoundrel named Niall Lynch years before Kavinsky ever came along. Ronan Lynch, he'll come to find out, is not simply a suicidal fuckup but a second generation dreamer with equally powerful friends.

But he didn't know then so he laughed at Proko's jealousy, believing Kavinsky would never replace him, and he ignored all the signs that said Lynch was going to bring their world crashing down. He's still ignoring them.

Skov hands the shades to Swan. "He's not bad."

"Tint is wrong," Swan adds. There's nothing Swan isn't critical of. Give him a glass of water and he'll tell you it tastes funny.

Proko runs his hand up the inseam of Jiang's shorts. He's insatiable, burning with a jealousy only Lynch can set off. Skov pulls Proko's feet to him and begins massaging one of his ankles. Proko groans, a deep, heartfelt sound. 

Swan flicks the shades to the side and goes back to his video game. _Kavinsky can do so much better than this cheap knockoff_ , the set of his shoulders say. _This doesn't deserve to be called a forgery._

Jiang relaxes. It's just a pair of sunglasses. They already knew Lynch was a dreamer. This isn't Kavinsky's first fixation. All they have to do is wait for this to blow over.

Two days later, an impossible thing happens: Richard Campbell Gansey III calls Joseph Kavinsky.

 

* * *

 

The last good memory Jiang has of Cheng is November of sophomore year. Jiang's coming down with something, though he's not worried about it yet. He figures it's nothing serious. It'll turn out he's wrong but he doesn't know it then, doesn't realize it's the beginning of the end when he agrees to go on a drive with Cheng.

"Ugh," Jiang groans, smacking the back of his head against the headrest. "Is this K-Pop?"

"B.A.P. is  _not_  K-Pop," Cheng counters and Jiang laughs because it is, it totally is.

They're sitting in the middle of nowhere in Cheng's Fisker, watching the sun go down on a Saturday afternoon. The car is a thing of absolute beauty. It's sleek and fast with no cabin space to speak of. Jiang wishes Cheng weren't such a goody two-shoes and would actually use that speed, but Cheng only has his permit and he doesn't want to chance it.

Jiang traces a pattern in the frosted window. He only understands the odd English interspersed between the Korean.

"No  _saranghae_?" he asks, grinning.

Cheng curls his lip. "Fuck you, Jiang." He says  _Jiang_  like he means to say something else. Something an awful lot like  _saranghae_. "It's not that kind of music."

The grin doesn't leave Jiang's lips. Neither do Cheng's eyes.

"If you say so."

 

* * *

 

Jiang hasn't gone to see Proko since he first got admitted to the hospital. It's too painful seeing him like that. There's nothing really wrong with him, no serious brain damage, just whiplash and bruising from the airbag.

Skov says he isn't going to wake up. He never has before. He won't now.

Swan doesn't seem broken up by the news. He makes a sharp separation between Proko before and Proko after, always has.

"You didn't know him," Swan says with a cold finality, "that's why you can't see it." 

It's so absurd Jiang has to fight not to laugh. 

Because how could he not notice when Proko came back and kissed like perfection, when he was so pliant and willing, so much more determined to please than before?

How could he not notice that the little scar on Proko's ankle, the one he got from slicing his foot on a rusty fire escape when he was eight, had vanished in the span of three months? How could he not notice that the bite, the little refusals that made Kavinsky and Proko so dynamic were gone?

Those are the easy rebuttals. They're not the most obvious changes, not to Jiang, who got to know that other Proko so well.

Jiang doesn't talk about the lines cut into Proko's thighs, the raw, red nail tracks across his chest, or the bite marks on his wrists. He doesn't talk about the recklessness, the overindulging, the wild laughter. He definitely doesn't talk about how careful Kavinsky was with him sometimes, how he'd press his fingers and his lips to Proko's injuries, hold him in his arms, murmur things in his ear too quiet for anyone else to hear. How Proko would sigh, rub his cheek against Kavinsky's gelled hair, say "I'm sorry, I'm sorry", and never change his ways.

Kavinsky left something out when he brought Proko back. Jiang's just not sure it was something that needed to stay.

But Swan's furious and Skov doesn't want to talk about it, and Rasmussen's never around, so Jiang stops trying to make them see sense. Proko, the new one, becomes another open secret.

Jiang's good at keeping those.

 

* * *

 

Jiang's been realizing some things lately. He doesn't agree with Swan, doesn't think Lynch is to blame for the misery that follows him, but he's not so stupid as to not make the connection. Morris was right: Lynch is bad news.

Kavinsky knew it and didn't care because he wanted him. It ruined Kavinsky, the idea that Lynch would rather belong to Gansey than him. Kavinsky's world was made up of things. Possessing them or destroying them were the only options.

Jiang never pretended Kavinsky was a friend. To Kavinsky, Jiang was just another thing, a trophy to put in his case, an exotic animal to keep in his zoo. His worth lay in the value Cheng placed on him.

Kavinsky wanted Lynch for Lynch. Oh, it would have fucking thrilled him to take Lynch from Gansey, but Kavinsky wanted Lynch the person, not just Lynch, Gansey’s thing.

Skov knew why, not that he bothered to tell Jiang until they were chloroforming Lynch's little brother and shoving him into the trunk of one of Kavinsky's Evos.

"Lynch isn't just like K," Skov had said, slamming the trunk shut. "He's more. He's a fucking wizard." He leaned one hip against the trunk and folded his arms across his chest. "You up for this?"

Jiang doesn't remember what he thought Skov meant at the time. He still hadn’t crossed the threshold of believing Skov. He’d hovered on it, sifting through his words for the future truth. Now it's obvious Skov knew what was going to go down that night and made no plans to stop it.

"Certain things stay the same," Skov once said, explaining why he could sometimes be so perfect in his predictions and other times drew a complete blank. "Births, suicides, major disasters."

In another timeline, Skov then told him, they graduate and Jiang never sees any of them again. He dies at forty, the same year Cheng gets into Parliament.

Skov didn't offer an explanation for this information. To him, it was a fact as emotionless as any out of a history book.

"And you and Swan?" Jiang asked, not letting on how much Skov’s words bothered him. Skov was entranced by Swan, if not outright obsessed. If he had Jiang’s and Cheng’s lives mapped out, he must know what happened to Swan.

"Oh, we’re together in every timeline. In that one, I kill him." Skov smiled. It was cruel, even for him. "That's how it is in most of them."

It sounded like sci-fi nonsense. Skov made bad jokes all the time. He was a frat boy who hadn't hit college yet, an immense tool and fuckboy who could drive like no one's business. Jiang thought he was an idiot from the moment they met. He still did, in most regards.

After that fateful Fourth, though, Jiang stopped doubting the weirder things Skov said.

 

* * *

 

In August, when anyone else would have stayed the fuck away, Ronan Lynch comes to Jiang and offers him a car.

It's hideous, one of Kavinsky's Lancer Evos. Unlike Lynch's BMW, it looks and feels exactly like the real deal. Jiang wants it as much as he doesn't.

He says, "sure, why not," and they drive to Dick Gansey's warehouse. Jiang looks up at the second floor and sees a dead boy staring back at him. He doesn't remember the kid's name, just that he's both the roommate and the kid Gansey found in the woods a few months back. Those two facts are probably related.

 _Most yuan gui would have moved on by now_ , Jiang thinks absently. _Why are you still here?_

"Did he ever give you anything?" Lynch asks and how Jiang wishes he could hate him.

"He gave me a million things," he says.

 _Was I special?_ Lynch is asking.

Jiang wishes he could say no.

Jiang wants to ask Lynch what Kavinsky was, what Lynch is, what that hitman wanted with them, why these horrible things always seem to happen when people get involved with him. Lynch wasn’t completely responsible for Kavinsky’s downfall. That was mostly Kavinsky’s sick, twisted, demented self. Jiang wants to ask Lynch, but that might involve admitting he helped lure Lynch’s brother to the fairground for a mock execution and he can’t imagine Lynch will be particularly helpful after that.

He also doesn't particularly want to keep talking to Lynch.

Jiang shouldn’t blame Lynch for his part in what happened and he mostly doesn't but, then again, he does. Screw Skov’s timelines, Proko wouldn’t have been driving if it weren’t for Kavinsky and Kavinsky wouldn’t have lost it if not for Lynch. They saved Lynch and now one of them's dead and Jiang’s afraid the other is never waking back up.

But he doesn't hate Lynch. And he wants the car.

So he makes small talk and he takes the Lancer Evo and he lets it burn, burn, burn because fire took K and it might as well take everything else with it.


	16. Chapter 16

Swan wakes up in a cold sweat, nauseous and far too sober. He glances at the bed on the other side of the room. No roommate. Good. The guy gets weirded out by Swan's nightmares and this one's killer.

Swan sits up with a groan. He swings his legs off the side of the bed and fumbles around on his nightstand for his phone.

 _Gansey_ , he texts Skov.

Skov sends him a crude dick emoji and a question mark.

 _No, the other Dick Gansey,_ Swan types furiously. Fucking Skov.

 _the woods?_ It's a horrible joke now. Of course, it's the woods.

_Somewhere underground. I don’t recognize it._

He thinks it might be _that_ place. The place where time is circular, unnatural.

 _i should care because?_ Skov asks.

_Lynch is with him._

For months now, they've been half monitoring Lynch, half running interference between him and the others. Why? Because Proko hasn't woken up and Cheng's gotten involved, and Jiang has  _feelings_.

Swan would kill Lynch if he could. Skov says he tried once, in another time. It didn't stick. Lynch is protected by something much stronger than any of them.

"It killed you," he told Swan, his fingers trailing down the side of Swan's neck, making him shiver. "You meant nothing to it."

Apparently, Dick Gansey hasn't fallen under this thing's protection.

_ill pick you up_

Swan curses softly and tosses his phone on the bed. His license is suspended, some bull about reckless driving. It would've been a DWI if he hadn't been on his way to the ABC store. Swan kind of wishes it were. Same penalty but with an actual reason.

Fucking Skov has been acting _concerned_ lately, driving Swan everywhere and hiding his keys. That's not- that's _never_ what they've been to each other. K and Proko being gone shouldn't change things.

Swan massages his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. He should be happy. Lynch is finally getting what’s coming to him. You don’t leave a trail of bodies without being punished. Swan can’t do it so the universe is stepping in.

Fucking Lynch.

He has these perfect teeth that Swan would dearly love to see punched right in. Unfortunately, Declan Lynch doesn't have actual fratricidal tendencies, is just, like, the shittiest, non-pedophilic older sibling ever, and never lands any real damage.

According to Skov, Lynch is protected. Hurting Lynch is assisted suicide.

It only makes Swan want to hurt him more.

Swan needs to hurt someone. He never got a chance to punish K for what he did to Proko. He doesn't intend to let Lynch get away with this. You don't deglove the hand that saves you.

Swan knows a thousand ways to hurt a person. It can't be that hard.

He just needs a chance.

Dick fucking Gansey is going to die, and Swan is going to enjoy every second of it.

 

* * *

 

"Where do you need me?" Skov asks and Swan shows him.

Skov presses his fingers, digs them into the spot where Dick Gansey's going to bleed out in thirty days' time. Swan will feel it then, too, stronger. For now, it's a phantom pain that will drive him mad if he doesn't get relief.

"Harder," Swan demands.

Skov never does it hard enough. He never goes past breaking the skin, won't even leave fractures on purpose. He doesn't understand how much Swan needs this, how disorienting it is for his mind to remember the hurt and his body to insist it's fine.

Swan shouldn't complain. Skov will do almost anything he asks. There are some things they don't chance and a few Skov refuses, but for the most part Skov is up for anything. It weirds Jiang out, though he'd never say as much. K always found it beyond hilarious because life was the greatest of games to him until he wanted out. The old Proko tried to understand. Morris never cared.

"How's it going to happen?" Skov asks. Swan is never sure if he actually cares or if he's simply trying to fill the silence.

"Knife wound," Swan hums, leaning into Skov's fingers, wanting them deeper inside him. "Just the one but the knife twists. It's a hunting knife, I think."

"You don't know?" Skov's voice pitches low. His breath is warm on Swan's neck.

Swan shakes his head. It's not too often people get stabbed.

Skov presses a kiss to Swan's neck. He's not asking permission or even warning, just going forward. Skov's unapologeticness is the greatest thing about him. It's a pain in the ass out in the real world but it's a revelation in the bedroom. Skov, believe it or not, actually knows what he's doing. He knows exactly what Swan likes before Swan even does and he doesn't hesitate or get hung up on the fact that he's fucking a guy. Skov knows what he's in for. He's never tried to hide what they have, has never been ashamed to be seen with Swan. 

He gives Swan a once-over, admiring the collection of bruises speckled across his torso. There have been a lot of dreams lately, and Skov's always happy to help.

Skov slips his other hand under the waistband of Swan's slacks. He cups Swan gently, again not asking permission. Swan arches back, giving it anyway.

Teeth sink into the juncture of Swan's neck and shoulder. Swan wishes Skov would draw blood but he won't push it, not today. He'd have to wear gauze and he doesn't feel like spending the day being not-so-subtly stared at.

Skov pulls him onto his lap, arms heavy and strong where they're wrapped around Swan's waist. He used to play sports, still bothers to work out, and it always kind of amazes Swan that he ended up with a guy like this, someone simultaneously so alluring and so frustrating, so endearing and so revolting.

It would help if Skov had something else to focus on. He quit the lacrosse and rugby teams last spring when Kavinsky started to get unhinged and demanding. He says he didn't do it because K wanted him to, just decided on his own that he wanted to spend time with K and Proko while he still could. It could be the truth. Skov’s truths are fairly loose.

Swan rolls his hips. Skov's hard already, probably was by the time he got here, and it's so _easy_ getting him to respond. His hand digs into Swan's side hard enough to bruise as he presses open-mouthed kisses along Swan's collarbone.

By Swan's reckoning, Proko was already gone by the time Skov quit, had been since the summer after sophomore year when he went to Jersey with K and something else came back. What Swan wouldn't give to know where the real Proko is now. Somewhere in New Jersey there's a ghost with Proko's face, just waiting for them to find him. Someday, Swan will find a way to comb all nine thousand of Jersey's square miles. He'll find Proko and everyone will know what K did.

It's too late to make K pay. It will never be too late to lay Proko to rest.

Skov's rocking up into him now, unsteady and quick. He's close. Swan is, too, though he's not that interested in getting off today.

They come, not quite together, not quite separate. Swan smirks at the expression on Skov's face and rolls off him to lay on the bed. He watches Skov's chest heave as the last of his orgasm works its way through him. His boy is flushed, spent because of him. It's a good feeling. 

With a finger, Swan traces the veins along the inside of Skov's right arm, blue-green against his pale skin. He wonders what it must be like to see your life force so close to the surface, to know how easy it would be to tear out. K had been even paler, veins blue as a king's.

Swan envies the way he went out. Not the actual act but the planning, the calculation, the ability to definitively choose when and how and where.

Skov nuzzles the crux of his neck, shameless as he is in all things, and Swan's eyes flutter closed. They're going to be late meeting Jiang for breakfast. Swan doesn't care. 

He could stay like this forever, in the hands of this infuriatingly wonderful boy.

 

* * *

 

Over breakfast, Swan tells Jiang what he felt and that's it. They go on with their day. Dick Gansey is not their problem.

Skov studies Jiang while they eat. They've been going out to breakfast every few days for a while now. The easiest way to get Jiang to do something is to guilt him into it and telling him he needs to show up at Denny's or McDonald's or wherever or it's just going to be Skov and Swan is a damn easy way to do it. Jiang has this longstanding notion they get on worse than they do- no idea where he got that from, they get on fine- and he assumes that means they're going to tear each other's heads off if he doesn't show up.

It's cool, cool. Fast food is no sweat and, if it means Jiang is up for morning classes, Skov will trek out to the IHOP in Singer's Falls any day.

Jiang needs serious help. Skov's no medical professional, but he's played this game enough times to know when someone's okay and when they're not. Jiang is definitely not.

He's not eating much lately, growing thinner and more sallow every time Skov sees him. The only part of him with any real color is his nose, which is red and chapped from his constant colds. He has deep lines under the eyes he can barely keep open.

There are no dream pills left. There's only modern medicine. Antibiotics, antidepressants, iron pills. The stuff his mother sends him would help if Jiang actually took it, instead of throwing it away.

Skov gives him modafinil and tells him not to get caught with it. He waggles his eyebrows while Jiang snorts and palms the bottle. The pills clink together in Jiang's pocket as they walk out of the restaurant.

Jiang, Swan says when they settle into the car, barely ate anything.

"He'll take the pills," Skov answers. "I told him they were K's."

"Were they?"

"They could have been."

"That's a no." Swan puts his feet up on the dash. He reclines the seat, folds his arms over his chest, and closes his eyes. "Tell me when we get to school."

Skov cranks the air conditioning up. "Whatever you say, _costillo_."

"Don't call me that."


	17. Chapter 17

Henry Cheng listens attentively, albeit tipsily. He asks appropriate questions, apologizing for not knowing Welsh history, and seems interested in Gansey’s ongoing quest to find Glendower. Gansey invites him to explore Jesse Dittley’s cave because he’s very nearly sloshed and he’s completely forgotten that Jesse Dittley’s cave is a very dangerous thing after all.

He’s halfway into a winding explanation of how amazing Adam is before he realizes Cheng has agreed to come.

“Fantastic!” Gansey says, slapping Cheng on the back. It’s too hard and Cheng tips forward. He splutters and laughs, unperturbed by the manhandling.

At 7:30 a.m., Cheng shows up at Monmouth. Neither Blue nor Ronan is impressed by his inclusion. Blue actually scoffs.

They cram into the Pig. Gansey drives, silently cursing the brightness of the world. Ronan calls him a pussy, which sets Blue off, and Gansey’s headache grows exponentially worse. Adam is staring out the window, chin propped on his clenched fist. Cheng’s been a bit leery of Adam all morning. Adam’s either not taking it well or completely indifferent. Gansey is too hungover to tell.

Ronan took one look at him this morning and laughed. Gansey’s still a little sore about that.

“Have you ever been spelunking?” Gansey asks Cheng. He can’t remember whether he asked last night.

“Nope.”

Cheng’s wearing cargo pants and clean Keen Growlers. He’s layered a North Face jacket over a long-sleeved shirt. So he was half-listening last night. Gansey hopes he realizes he’s going to get dirty.


	18. Chapter 18

"You're going to love this," Skov says in a way that means Swan absolutely will not. He shifts, pulling one warm, heavy arm off of Swan's bare chest, and shows him his phone.

It’s a screenshot of a Facebook post. Henry Cheng is standing in what can generously be called hiking clothes. There’s a description next to the photo saying, "going spelunking for the first time!" He's tagged Dick Gansey and Adam Parrish.

Swan swears.

"Guess that settles it," Skov says, sitting up. The bed sways. The sudden loss of warmth leaves Swan feeling bereft. He'd been looking forward to the two of them spending the morning horizontal.

Skov scrolls through his phone, unconcerned by the cracks webbed across his screen. He keeps saying he'll buy a replacement when the next upgrade comes out. The nearest Apple store is less than an hour away. He's just too lazy to go.

It should piss Swan off, how little Skov cares about these kind of things. If he had his way, all of his electronics would look like he let a two-year-old play with them. Skov has money but it doesn't occur to him to use it if he can make do otherwise.

"It works fine," he'll say the next time Swan tells him to _just buy a new one, you fucking klutz_.

"How do you feel about cave exploration?" Skov asks.

"Sounds fucking delightful," Swan groans, sitting up himself. Skov leans over to kiss the bridge of his nose. That should piss Swan off, too.

He presses against Skov for a second, then gets up to get dressed.

"No shower?"

"I'm going in a fucking cave. I don't need to smell like a goddamn lily."

That makes Skov smile but then most things do. 

When he smiles like this, it makes it look like he's got a bit of a double chin. It shouldn't be as cute as it is. Skov's muscular, he works out, but the boy can eat. There's a softness to him, especially around his stomach and chest. 

Dick Gansey's bleeding out today and here Swan is checking out last night's DTF. President Bell would be so proud.

"I don't feel anything," Swan says as he's tugging a clean shirt over his head. Skov will know what he means, just like he'll know that doesn't mean anything. Cheng could still get hurt. It's just not going to be deliberately.

There's a lot of gray to this ability of Swan's.

Skov, still looking through his phone, glances up at him. "I hope it's worth it."

"Yeah," Swan says, thinking of his lost morning. He could be sitting on Skov's dick right now. "So do I." He grimaces. They're really going to do this. "Time to go save Jiang’s boytoy."

 

* * *

 

There is one stop first.

"Hey, fuckface," Skov yells while Swan pounds on the door. "Get your ass up!"

Predictably, it's Jiang's extremely cheerful roommate who answers the door. He's a new roomie from last year, and Jiang is openly horrified by how chipper and wholesome he is. Skov has made a point of acting like Skylar is his new best friend for this exact reason.

They swap a complicated handshake before Skylar lets them in. Much better than that fundie Jiang got stuck with last year. That kid had a whole litany of problems with them. Only ten were even normal complaints.

Jiang, naturally, is passed out facedown on his bed.

Swan sits down on Jiang's bed and slaps the back of his legs. He notes with approval that Jiang's put on weight again, feels like he's more than just bones under Swan's hand. For a while there he was rocking the famine victim look. It used to be, there were people who made sure Jiang was getting something to eat when his insides were telling him they’d prefer to be on the outside.

Those people have been gone for a while now.

Jiang groans and moves his legs out of the way.

Skylar takes this all in with amusement. He's sitting cross-legged on his bed with a textbook on his lap. Swan thinks he's a sophomore.

Swan’s not sure how Jiang's rooming arrangements go down but it seems to be something along the lines of put the weird, frustrating people together. When they start going for each other's throats, switch. Skylar got in because he's too damn much of a morning person for most people to handle.

"Time to get up," Swan says, bending down to Jiang's ear so he can't pretend he didn't hear him.

"It's Saturday," Jiang groans. "I don't have to do shit."

"You're gonna wanna," Skov says. At least, that's what Swan assumes he said. Skov’s got one of Skylar's Clif bars stuffed in his mouth.

"Noooo," Jiang says, burying deeper into his covers. He has this crazy soft duvet. Swan rips it off the bed.

"Jiang, seriously, you want to get up."

Jiang lifts his head and gives Swan just the most irritably defiant look. If he were behind the wheel of his Supra, that look might have some weight. Here in his dorm room it doesn't mean shit.

"Skylar, my man, can you give us a minute?" Skov asks.

Skylar is honestly the best. He grabs his backpack, shoves his textbook inside, and leaves his own room because Jiang's least favorite friend asked him to. Swan's going to buy him a case of Corona next time he's out.

Jiang sits up, digging both his palms into his eye sockets.

"What the fuck do you two want?" he asks, pulling his hands away.

"Dick Gansey's going spelunking. So are we."

"No way," Jiang says automatically. "That has shit-all to do with us."

"So cruel," Swan says. "Don't you want to save Dicky's life?"

"Fuck no. That's today?" Jiang frowns, obviously doing the calculations in his head. "There's nothing you can do about that."

"He's not alone."

"Parrish and Lynch will be fine. Let me sleep." Jiang turns to go back to bed. Swan grabs his sleeve.

"I _said_ , he's not alone." He shows Jiang his iPhone and the picture of Cheng decked out in hiking gear.

Jiang curses. Then he's up and moving, pawing through his dresser.

"Wonderful, just wonderful," he's saying to himself. "Why the fuck wouldn't he follow Dick fucking Gansey into a cave the day he's going to die." He scowls at Swan. "You think Lynch is with them?"

"Do you honestly think he wouldn't be?" During the daytime, Lynch and Gansey are a set pair.

"Jesus fucking Christ. That complete moron." Jiang slams his fists down on top of his dresser. "It had to be today. I wasn't supposed to have to do anything today!"

"Join the club."

 

* * *

 

Jiang is going twenty over the speed limit up 81. The RX-7’s holding up fine. Jiang’s the one who’s going to shake apart.

Skov says he knows where they’re going and they both believe him.

“Have you ever heard of Coopers Mountain?” Skov asked as they piled into his car.

Geography has never been Swan’s strong point.

“There’s a cave system there. That’s where they’ll be.”

There’s a mess of helmets and headlights in the back. Skov’s prepared for this, says he knows where they’re going, he’s been there before. There’s more, things he’s not saying. Swan’s trying to figure out what he considers worse than Dick Gansey bleeding out.

He amends that to anything.

It’s not Dick Gansey they’re going in to save.

 

* * *

 

Skov drums his fingers on the back of Jiang's headrest. It's aggravating, especially without the radio to distract him from the noise. Jiang doesn't want the radio on. He also doesn't want Skov drumming his fingers but fuck if Skov cares what Jiang wants.

"So here's a question," Skov says because Skov is an inveterate asshole who never learned to keep his mouth shut, "do you not like Gansey because he's a tool or 'cause Cheng's been keeping company with him?"

"I don't know," Jiang snaps back. "Do you not like Lynch 'cause he got our friend killed or 'cause he let Kavinsky suck his dick?"

There’s a moment of tense silence. Skov breaks it by opening his fat mouth.

"In a-"

"I don't care about your alternate fucking timelines!" Jiang yells. "Nothing good ever happens in them."

Swan watches silently, like he's actually impartial in all this, like he wouldn't take Skov's side when it fucking matters.

There's one person left in this shitty world not related to Jiang who ever really gave a damn about him. That person is currently in the company of Ronan Lynch and Richard Gansey, the first of whom gets people killed and the second of whom is slated to die.

Swan wants revenge. Jiang, for once in his life, wants to play the hero.

"Maybe nothing you consider good," Skov mutters.

"Does it fucking matter? I'm never going to see them. I don't need you to tell me my life is going to be shit. It's shit now!"

"If you two don't stop it," Swan snaps, "I'm going to slap the both of you."

"Stay out of this," Jiang snaps back. "This doesn't involve you."

"Uh, yeah, it fucking does. Goddamnit, Jiang, I know Skov can be an ass but you're not being a whole lot better. Proko and K are gone and that's on K, not the rest of us."

Skov and Jiang look at him.

"What?" Swan asks.

"You think Kavinsky's responsible?" Jiang asks.

Swan grits his teeth, then blows out a sigh. "It's the truth, isn't it? Look, I still don't like Lynch and he didn't help matters but I think we all knew things were getting bad." He throws a crumpled beer can at Skov's head. Skov catches it before it hits him. "By the way, I'm still mad at you for not saying anything beforehand."

"It's never made a difference before." There's a hurt in Skov's eyes Jiang's never seen. "K never makes it past the summer."

Jiang sucks in a breath.

"It's happened before?" he asks.

Skov inclines his head. "You don't want to know how many times."

"Shit." Jiang sits back in his seat. " _Shit_."

"Mmm."

 

* * *

 

They’re twenty minutes out when the back of Swan’s neck prickles.

"Really?" Skov asks no one. “We’re going to do this right now?”

Swan pivots in his seat and throws a hand out to grab Skov’s arm. He shouldn’t, it’s not necessary, but Skov hates when it happens in a moving vehicle. He’s never sure where he’ll end up when he comes back.

Skov flickers like an old TV, then he's gone. Vanished. 

Jiang catches all this in the rearview mirror. Swan has barely a second to remember he's never seen Skov do this before Jiang jerks the steering wheel to the right and nearly veers off the damn highway.

“I think,” Swan says as they screech to a stop, inches from crashing into the guardrail, just two teenagers in an RX-7 on a stretch of nearly empty highway, “it's my turn to drive."


	19. Chapter 19

Skov's the one who visits.

He brings Proko get well cards he'll never read and stuffed animals he'll never touch. He ties balloons to Proko's bed and hangs pictures on his walls. Skov describes them for him. Mostly, they're of Proko and K. 

"Heyyy, sweetheart," Skov says quietly as he pulls up a chair next to him. What Proko wouldn't give for  _sweetheart_ to be replaced by something more intimate, more familiar, in a voice that's savage seduction and destruction rolled into one.

But what he's got is Skov, who says things like _sweetheart_ and _lovely_ , whose presence doesn't promise pain with the pleasure, just kindness, who sits for hours and tells Proko about all the things he's missing. Jiang's not doing so good, Skov says, but Swan's okay. Rasmussen might actually pass his first year of college. Who knows what's going on with Morris.

He doesn't mention Dvorak. He never says K's name.

"We miss you," he says, combing Proko's hair from his eyes. "It's no fun without you."

_You promised, you promised._

Does Skov even remember making that promise?

While Declan Lynch looked at K and saw his father, Proko looked at Matthew Lynch and saw himself. He realizes now he ought to have been looking at a woman named Aurora, a beautiful, kind woman he never met, who stopped getting out of bed the day her husband was murdered.

It's not so easy, Proko knows, living without your soul.

He wants to scream some days, rage at K for doing this to him, for doing everything to him, for leaving him without ever thinking that, maybe, just maybe, K wasn't so much his reason for being as the reason he _could_ be.

Because he's dead. Proko has no doubt about that. He wouldn't be here, in this painfully sterile room Swan and Jiang never visit, if K were still out there somewhere.

_Why couldn't you listen, K?_

_Was he worth it? Did you get what you wanted?_

Proko was never enough. He knew it and it ate away at the vulnerable parts of him, the thought that he was K's dream and he still wasn't _enough_ **.** K still had to go after Lynch because a dream is a hollow thing compared to a dreamer.

Matthew Lynch understood. Like calls to like.

It wasn't a friendship, nothing like that. Just, sometimes, they'd run into each other and Matthew didn't know why, but he'd look at Proko with that puzzled frown on his face, thinking  _what are you, why do I recognize you, do we have a class together?_

They didn't and they wouldn't, and Proko never told Matthew, not even when he walked up to him and kept him distracted while Skov came up behind and pressed a chloroform-soaked rag to his face.

They're two of a kind, him and Skov. Always prepared to do K's dirty work, never caring what it says about them when they do it.

What's going to happen to Matthew the day Lynch decides he's had enough? There's a place, Morris told Proko the one time he visited, where dreams can live without their dreamers. Maybe Lynch will take Matthew there first, before he goes.

 _Don't take me there_ , he begs Skov silently, _whatever you do. You_ _promised._

So far, Skov hasn't taken him there. He hasn't done anything. He's sat and he's talked to Proko as though one day Proko's going to get up and live again.

As though one day he's going to want to.

If there's a hell and he's allowed in, Proko's going to find K and he's going to slug him right in that pretty little mouth of his. Then he's going to kiss him blood, tongue, and teeth because when the alternative is an eternity without K, anything can be forgiven.

And if he meets that other him,  _ну_. Proko can't imagine there's going to be much competition for K's heart.

 _Please, Skov. You_ promised _._

Unfortunately, Skov is slow and he does things on his own time, and that means Proko has to wait. He has to listen to stories of people falling apart, has to hear Skov and the nurses talk. One of them thinks Skov's his boyfriend and there's a bitter pill. 

It makes sense. Skov's the one who comes. Skov's the one who brings things. Skov's the one who sits with a comatose teenager once a week.

It's not Jiang Proko's mad at. Proko knows he's not coming. What they had was good and this, this isn't. Proko would rather Jiang remember the good times. Jiang doesn't have enough of those.

No, the person Proko's mad at is the only person who can't visit because his absence is the reason Proko's here. When you remake a person, you have to tell them, you have to warn them. You can't just leave and expect them to be okay without you.

K made him this way. He made Proko want him, crave him, _need_ him. He told Proko he needed him, too.

What a fucking cock.

Proko misses him like hellfire.

Proko wants so desperately to hate K. He died. K killed him. He brought him back and covered it up but their friends knew. Everyone knew something was off. Their classmates laughed, pointed, whispered. Look at Proko. He's Kavinsky's bitch now.

Proko couldn't remember a time when he wasn't.

Did he even like K before? Did his stomach bottom out every time K touched him? Or was that one of the revisions K made?

Who was Proko really? Because, according to everyone else, he sure as hell wasn't this unmarked, mild-mannered kid who followed K one step behind like a loyal dog.

Does it matter? Proko wants him now. He misses being the constant companion, the one who always got shotgun, the one K turned to first. What did it matter if people looked at him with pity and disgust when he was happy?

What did it matter when being apart was agony?

So many times Proko wanted to ask,  _why did you do it? Why did you kill me?_ But the words could never pass his lips. The truth is, Proko didn't want to know. He just wanted to see the look on K's face. Fear, remorse, anger, Proko would lap it all up.

Instead, he lies here immobile, that same question burning in his mind. The answer gets worse every time.

Proko, weak as he is, aches for the day when he'll see K again.

Skov has to remember. He never forgets. He gets confused sometimes, too many timelines jumbling in his head, but he never _forgets_.

What is he waiting for?

Every time, right before he leaves, Skov bends over and presses a kiss to the space between Proko's eyebrows. He breathes in, out, and Proko can feel his breath on his eyelids.

"I'll come back soon," Skov says as he pulls away.

Then he's gone and all Proko can think is, _no, no, no,_ _NO. I'm still here. Why am I still here?_

 _You_ promised _._


	20. Chapter 20

Promises are the least of Skov's worries right now.

He's fifteen again and standing outside Aglionby, cursing under his breath. He's gone through this level dozens of times before.

Skov does the calculations in his head. He could be back in five seconds. But. 

But.

He doesn't know when he's going to see Proko or K again. Here they are, looking at him with their fourteen-year-old baby faces, not knowing what the next three years are going to bring, and he _can't do it_.

If Jiang and Swan keep driving, thirty minutes in the mainline, seven years here won't make a difference.

In a second, it's decided. Skov will use this alt as a test run. There are things left to be learned. 

Rasmussen and Morris, within five minutes of each other, texted him this morning and four years from now, sending him the same screenshot of Henry Cheng's wall. Rasmussen he might have ignored. He texts Skov ten times a day, blathering on about college this and adulthood that. If Morris is getting involved, though, it means things are going to shit. Skov will use this alt. He'll find out what he needs to know and he'll get out. Simple as that.

The mainline's already fading. This, right here, this feels real.

Proko stands on the other side of K, who's pretending Skov's opinion of their newest member doesn't matter. Morris is too busy fiddling with his phone to care.

"Hey, you," Skov says to the dark-skinned black kid standing next to K, "I just _know_ we're going to be good friends."

Swan sneers. It's the most beautiful thing Skov's ever seen.

And so it begins.

 

* * *

 

The very first time Skov meets Swan, he is ten and fifteen and he thinks he's dreaming. They become friends for a time, nothing more. Stronger in Skov's memory is a boy with razor-sharp teeth and a smile like sin.

The second time, Skov is ten and fifteen and he still thinks it's a dream. He remembers Swan. Skov knows someone so perfect doesn't exist outside his dreams. He remembers, too, a boy with crooked shoulders and a wild laugh.

The third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, Skov is ten and fifteen and he knows there is something deeply wrong with him. These dreams, they don't come at night. He's losing time during the day. His teachers are asking why he thinks he can just leave class the way he does. _That may be how they do things in Hampton,_ the teachers say, _but here in Henrietta, you have to ask permission._ Skov says he's sorry, he won't do it again. 

He knows he'll do it again.

The seventh time, Skov is eleven and fifteen, and scared. These aren't normal fantasies he's having: fantasies don't include murdered teachers and suicides, and good people falling into comas.

Skov goes to the library and checks out books on lucid dreaming. He reads them in secret in his room, terrified his sister or his mom will catch him and ask questions. Skov tells himself he's dreaming. All he has to do is wake up. There has to be a way to wake up.

When he's twelve and nineteen, he finds it. By then, he's known K and Proko, Rasmussen and Dvorak, Morris and Swan for years, has seen their lives sketched out numerous times. He's fallen for all or most of them, the feelings so jumbled, so tinged by fear and confusion and pain he can't keep them straight. They're not real so it doesn't matter. They're figments of an overactive imagination, too much soda before bedtime.

It's supposed to be, once you realize you're dreaming, you can change the course of your dream or you can wake up.

So why can't Skov do either?

Megan teases him about his recurring dreams. Mom's face grows tight and pinched. Dad works too much to notice.

It's just an overactive imagination fueled by too much caffeine and candy. It's just a cry for attention.

It could be, the pediatrician says, early signs of something far more serious.

Skov stops talking about his dreams. He looks for a way out on his own.

It's an accident, really. In this alternate timeline, K's long dead and Proko's not waking up. Swan's the only one left. 

One day, Swan drinks too much, mixes things that shouldn't be mixed, and his breathing stops. Skov's shaking him, feeling for a pulse when everything goes fuzzy.

The next thing he knows, Skov is lying in his bed wearing Spider-Man pajamas. His parents are yelling at him because he slept through his alarm and he's going to be late for school again.

He opens his eyes, stares at the ceiling, and closes his eyes again. 

Bum...bum...bum. Bum. Silence. That's the sound of a beautiful man dying.

It makes no sense. It makes every.

Skov is twelve and fifteen when he turns homicidal.

 

* * *

 

This time around, Skov races through fifteen and sixteen. They're fast, easy. 

Gain K's trust so he can keep Swan close. Con the son of a mug, befriend Proko, laugh with Morris. Do it, do it, do it until Swan tolerates him. Swan, Skov figured out a long time ago, is the one who truly matters.

Sixteen turns into seventeen. Skov hates and loves seventeen. Seventeen is the year K ends it. Seventeen is the year Swan trusts him.

He burns through it. K knows by now that Skov's telling the truth. He won't live to see August. Skov doesn't tell him about Proko. Things don't improve when he does. K is going out and the guilt or the shame or whatever it is that beautiful psychopath feels over Proko only makes him go faster. Lynch tipped the scales. He didn't start K's descent.

Last time, fate was kind or maybe it was cruel. Skov met Swan late, sixteen, the summer before junior year. Skov scratched his name into the Evo's door handle, so K would have to touch it every time he drove it. As punishment, K took a switchblade to the small of his back and carved "PROPERTY OF J. KAVINSKY", as much a tramp stamp as a cattle brand. It hurt like hell and it got infected. K's eyes gleamed every time he saw the mangled flesh, and Skov felt a secret pleasure when they did.

In that timeline, Skov was all about making what little time he had matter. He smoked pot in the backseat of Proko's brand new Golf, held that precious, ugly boy to him, the one who had been dead and gone for years in the mainline, who had days or months left in this one, and let him think he was high out of his mind because the truth was so much worse and stranger. He forgot Swan and what they had in another time. The Swan in this timeline was indifferent and Skov, in his desperate, fleeting joy, thought that would be better.

It was July 27th in the mainline.

K was dead for real. Skov would never see him grow up.

He died again in that timeline but not before Skov had a piece of him. Not before he knew for certain who was responsible.

This time, he isn't so overwhelmed. It's painful, agonizing, to see the dead walking again. Nothing will change, not for those two. That's a lesson Skov had to learn.

It's not the lesson he needs.

Skov has become friends with Lynch many times. He's joined the tennis team, met the happier, tamer version of Ronan Lynch. There are timelines where, after Niall Lynch's murder, Skov introduced Lynch to K, plied him with alcohol, got him to talk about impossible things.

Skov knows about Adam Parrish. He knows about Cabeswater. He's been to 300 Fox Way and the Barns and Dick Gansey's family mansion.

It's not enough to save K or Proko. It was never going to be. Some things Skov can't change.

"I love you, man," Skov says as he wraps K's hand, time after time. Underneath the gauze is yet another burn, the price of making the unreal real. Skov's gotten good at treating burns over the years. "Don't forget that."

It makes no difference. Nothing ever does.

God or the Devil is punishing Skov, making him relive K's suicide until it's one of the many constants. K will cut his own life short. Proko will die and be reborn. Ronan Lynch will be a bastard. Skov will hate him because hating Lynch is easier than admitting the problem is in K's mind, always was and always will be.

K won't accept treatment. He'll take meds when he feels like it, mixing them with alcohol until he has fucked up dreams about flames licking at the corners of his minds. He has burns in every lifetime. Once he burns up in his sleep, gets swallowed whole by the dragon, and Skov can't- won't- ask him to go to counseling again. There are terrible things in K's mind. Skov doesn't want to save K's life as much as he wants to spare him the misery of it.

But he can’t change what he can’t change. Skov powers through seventeen and watches K spiral for the hundredth time.

It starts the summer before. No one walks away from their first death unscathed.

Proko used to be K’s weather gauge. Proko could charm the pants off anybody. He might not have been gifted in the looks department but he was kind and caring, and up for anything. The forgery never quite manages to capture that charm. There's a little too much K in him, a little too much of the Proko K knew, the one who existed when they were alone, blended with the person K wanted Proko to be.

Swan could never stand the changes. Jiang barely cared.

"If you could change Swan, would you?" is the question K always asks, like asking it will absolve him of the guilt over what he's done and will do again.

"No." Skov doesn't share K's desire for absolute control.

Skov watches it eat away at K, the egomania and the unhappiness as he realizes his creation could never be a true replacement. This is where it starts.

Skov has always wanted to know: did K become a murderer that summer or did he witness a tragedy? Was it all a game, a test of how far K could push the boundaries of what it meant to be truly human?

In the mainline, K never talked about it and Skov never asked.

 

* * *

 

It's a cosmic joke. Meet the most amazing guy, fall stupid in love, and wait for him to die. You can't go home until he does.

When Skov was twelve and fifteen, he realized he could kill Swan and get it all over with. It wasn't so bad when he was thirteen and a scared kid trying to understand why he had such vivid, recurring daydreams. It was nothing when he was fourteen and did it every few weeks.

Then he met Swan in the mainline and couldn't do it anymore, not when Swan was real and magnificent and amazing. Skov disappeared for six hours once because he waited for old age to do the deed for him. The next time, a college age Swan turned it on him. He asked Skov to kill him, hands around the throat. A fantasy of his, he said. A longtime one.

What better way to do it than by giving the most important person what he's always wanted?

It's been like that ever since.

 

* * *

 

Once Swan gets used to him, the animosity becomes a game. Skov will overstep and piss him off and Swan will reassert his boundaries. He doesn't realize they're shifting with each passing interaction.

They're gonna be together. It's just a question of when and for how long.

 

* * *

 

"I don't even like you," Swan hisses against his skin. They're in Swan's Golf, skipping third period, and Swan's got a hand twisted in his uniform shirt. "You're such a fucking _dick_."

"You're despicable," he groans as Skov's buried inside him. His long, gorgeous hands are clutching Skov's shoulders and he's panting with every breath. "Absolutely atrocious."

"Why can't you learn to shut up?" he asks as he holds an ice pack against Skov's swelling cheekbone. "Idiot. You can't _talk_ to people like that. What did you think he was going to do, walk away?"

Skov loves the icy tones and the cool glares, the sneers. He especially loves the insults. Fatass, idiot, klutz. Swan has a litany of banal cruelties just for him and it's amazing because they're _words_.

Swan saves his words for people he likes. People say he's quiet. He is but, then again, he's not. He just won't talk to you if he doesn't think you're worth his time. So words, even insults, are good.

Also, Skov kinda, sorta, maybe likes being stripped down to nothing when he's seven inches deep in the boy he loves.

 

* * *

 

They never get along at first. Swan looks at Skov and he sees his stepfather. He sees obnoxious Americans, spoiled rich kids, users and abusers.

Skov is alright not being liked. In truth, Skov prefers it that way. There are a hundred thousand variables to life but for some reason, the timelines follow a basic pattern. It’s easier to push people away than get close again, especially when he knows this is the real deal. Whatever happens in the mainline, he has to come back to it. If he can just keep Swan from caring, if he can just keep Jiang angry, if he can just stop trying to save K and Proko, he doesn’t have to accept the guilt or the anguish when nothing changes.

Almost always, it goes like this: Proko dies and K crumbles, K dies and the forgery goes under, and Swan hews closer to Skov. Proko never wakes up. Eventually, Swan dies and Skov goes back to the mainline to live it all again. Death, death, death. Every event is bracketed by death.

There have been times when he was never friends with any of them. Swan still found him, came to him at twenty-three with suicide and death and murder hanging heavy in the air around him, and said, “I remember you. We were at Aglionby together.” And they were and Skov never got to touch Proko or smear burn ointment on K’s skin or tell Jiang that a cure was coming, he just had to hold on a few more years.

Skov would rather do it this way. He’d rather be the asshole no one would be friends with if he weren’t useful, so fucking useful. If he’s going to have to watch them go through this dance, he might as well be close. Just not close enough that they like him back.

God hates him. One day Skov's going to find Him and kick His ass, tell Him fuck this reality-hopping shit, no one deserves to be stuck playing the same levels of a video game for eight cursed-long years. Skov's going to make Him pay for this bullshit, going to make Him answer all the questions he’s had over the years, like  _what happened to Proko?_  and  _why does Jiang have to be sick?_  And  _what kind of fucked up God makes a_   _child watch the whores around him suffer every time he closes his eyes?_

And  _why, why, why can’t I do anything to change the little tragedies, the ones people don’t see because they think_  screw up  _and_  loser  _when they see a group of boys drowning in their supposedly privileged lives?_

 

* * *

 

Skov knew K first. He was there the day Nadezhda Borisova Kavinska and her son moved in. He lounged against Nadezhda's Porsche, watching the movers do their thing, daring K to come out and face him.

"Skov," he said, offering the other boy a hand and folding it back up when K raised an eyebrow. "I live a few streets over.”

Skov's heart threatened to beat out of his chest as he stood in front of K and his cookie cutter, 5,000 square foot, brick and vinyl house.

He didn't have a script for this. In every alt, K was already a fixed figure in his life, the middleman when it came to meeting Swan. Skov was banking on this kid who looked so much like the one in his dreams needing him.

"I think you're going to like it here. A change of pace from where you're from but it looks like you could use a change," he told K with a lopsided grin.  _Trust me. I'm no threat_. "If you need anything, let me know. I'll get it for you."

K assumes his father sent him. Skov does nothing to dispel that myth.

They don't become friends. Skov's not even sure K likes him all of freshman year. But K had been banished to the boondocks and Skov was useful, even before K realized what Skov could really offer him.

He points K towards people. K doesn't ask how a freshman knows the names and backstories of each and every one of their classmates, just accepts that Morris and Rasmussen should roll with him. Skov shows him the fairgrounds, the drag strip, the lake. He gets K what he wants before K knows to want it.

And K conquers. He carves out his own portion of Henrietta. He's not afraid to look outside Aglionby for companionship. Their little group grows. Skov fades to the background and lets Proko take his rightful place. K's side isn't where Skov wants to be, anyway.

He's waiting, biding his time.

Proko, you see, is the catalyst.

It's his death and resurrection that turns K's idle stroll on the path of self-destruction into a dead run. It's his death that makes Swan turn from the both of them, horrified for the one and disgusted by the other, straight into Skov's arms.

It's not always that way. There are times when Proko lives. There are horrible lifetimes where K doesn't care and Proko's death is nothing and he doesn't come back.

So often, Skov wants to apologize to Proko for introducing him to K, for what he has done and will do to him. Every time, he remembers the way Proko looks at K, like happiness is his name on K's tongue and completion is K's hand on his shoulder. K isn't simply the worst thing that will ever happen to Proko: he's the best, too.

Spring of sophomore year, when it's not too late to tell Proko to make a run for it, Skov debates telling him to refuse K's offer to spend the summer with him.

The alts don't determine the mainline. Two times he's lived before. He could live again. It's a narrow hope but it's a hope. 

Skov doesn't tell him.

That summer, Danylo Prokopenko, the first, the original, disappears without a trace.

 

* * *

 

The six of them are lying on the side of a grassy knoll. It's November but the day is hot and gorgeous, a welcome break from the autumn chill. When K said they were going, no one argued.

Dvorak keeps poking Rasmussen in the cheek with his bare foot. He snickers when Rasmussen swats him away.

Dvorak's been AWOL for a year in the mainline. In this timeline, he's still around. Skov can't say it's an improvement.

In the mainline, Proko ran Dvorak out of town when he started treating Jiang like something to be pushed around rather than a person. There was probably more to it, something to do with Dvorak’s wandering hands and treatment of the public school girls, but that simple story is what Skov chooses to believe. Skov's not entirely sure what happened to Dvorak after that. There's a very real possibility he's dead and by Proko's hand, no less. Swan doesn't think so (it's not gracious- he's just not interested in entertaining the possibility K and Proko found a way to scrub psychic residue from their auras), but there's a reason that guy was K's favorite.

Jiang and the forgery are sitting next to each other. They're both holding a piece of grass between their hands. Jiang looks at Proko skeptically. Proko blows on his grass, making an loud buzzing sound. 

K, flat on the grass a few feet from them, pulls a cap over his eyes. He fingers a green pill, ready to dream them a new diversion.

Swan is rubbing sunscreen into his arms. Skov would offer to do it for him, except they're not at the point in this timeline where that'd be accepted. It's no big loss. They'll get there eventually.

"Isn't the whole point of being black that you don't need sunscreen?" Proko asks. He tosses his abused grass stalk to the ground, already bored with it. Jiang keeps trying and failing to make his vibrate.

Swan gives him the middle finger and keeps applying.

The sun feels like heaven. Warm and humid but not overbearing like where he spent the first ten years of his life, at the mouth of the James River and the elbow of the Chesapeake Bay. The summer's there were so humid the air was more water than oxygen.

It smells like honeysuckle. As a kid, Skov always had difficulty telling the difference between honeysuckle and azalea. He wouldn't know which one he had until he tasted bitterness or sugar. There's very little azalea in Henrietta and a whole lot of honeysuckle.

The grass underneath him is rough and scratches at his skin. It's warm. Everything's warm. Skov could drift off and forget the mainline even exists, that reality where Dvorak and Rasmussen, Proko and K are gone. Where Jiang's dying and Swan wants to.

This alt is pleasant. It's got its flaws but it's nice overall. K hasn't started fixating on Lynch yet. Proko has nothing to be jealous of. Swan gives him the time of day.

"Skov?" Swan asks but Skov doesn't feel up to talking. This day happened second for second in the mainline and he wants to savor it.

A cloud must have passed in front of the sun because it's suddenly cool. 

Skov cracks one eye to find someone leaning over him. This is new.

"Do you feel it?" the forgery asks, Proko's familiar, hypomanic glint in his eyes. K didn't leave that out this time.

Skov doesn't. He wishes he did.

Back home, he's got a poster with all his guesses. One day, he's going to find a city without a ley line. He's going to take Swan there and their lives will be easy.

"What does it feel like?"

Proko grabs Skov's hand and presses it to his chest, over his beating heart.

"Like this," he says.

"You know?" Skov asks. He feels the warm throb of Proko's heartbeat and the sharpness of K's eyes on his neck.

"I do." Proko grins. "And you know what?" He stands up, flinging his arms out. "I don't give a fuck!"

Skov grins with him. He's glad this forgery is content.

"Proko," K says, patting the ground next to him. "Come here."

Proko goes without hesitation. The first Proko could never refuse K anything. The forgery is no different.

In this timeline, K is careful, almost gentle with the forgery. Why he couldn't be like that in the mainline is anyone's guess. It warms Skov's heart and hurts like nothing else because this moment doesn't matter to anyone but him. The mainline's waiting and it's a meaner, crueler version of this. There Proko's dead and the forgery might as well be. There K wasted his affection on someone who was never going to return it.

 _Love him_ , he thinks at K as his heavy eyes slide closed. Proko slings one arm over K's chest and tucks his head under K's arm, aware, incredibly, that, in a moment, he, too, is going to sleep. _Cherish him. Forget Lynch. Live._

_Let him die happy, just this once._

Because nothing else changes. Skov used to hope he could do one small thing, make one little change, and it would butterfly out into a new future. That's not how it works. There are a handful of changes and that's it, the story stays the same.

_Love him._

 

* * *

 

Skov has dreams that he's successful. He yells at K to _stay alive, you bastard, live!_  and K does. The forgery grows up instead of languishing in a hospital bed. K lives. He makes a name for himself. He and Skov drift apart like people do. They have lives.

But dreams don't become reality, not Skov's dreams. He wakes up in the mainline and K's gone, the forgery's unconscious, and Ronan Lynch, the bastard, is barely affected.

They saved his life. They helped him. They killed for him.

Did he really think K needed to take care of that hitman personally? Skov could have done that. Proko wouldn't have thought twice.

Skov knows it isn't right but he won't forgive Lynch for his part in K's suicide. If it could be called a suicide.

Was it a suicide?

It's been clearer before. Overdoses, bullets to the brain, poison. Quick, relatively painless. Pain isn't one of K's things.

Why would K choose fire? Fire was what waited at the edges of his dreams, ready to consume him. Get in, get out. Like a thief who knew he was always on the verge of getting caught.

What if it wasn't a suicide this time? What if it was a duel to the death and Lynch emerged victorious?

It's a little of both and a little of neither, Skov knows. He's tired of knowing, though. He'd love for life to be a mystery again, instead of a collection of possibilities he's seen before.

There's one constant: he wants Lynch to pay. Lynch might not be responsible but he isn't blameless, can't be blameless.

Skov won't accept that he's blameless.

 

* * *

 

Skov hates the end of junior year.

"He's never going to be with you," he tells K in June when he's feeling bitter and cruel. Time is ticking and Skov doesn’t want to face the inevitable. "You need to accept that."

They get in a fight, two dusted teenagers trying to draw first blood. K splits Skov’s eyebrow. Skov doesn't even leave a bruise.

"Do you feel better?" he asks K while the doctor finishes stitching up his face.

"No," K answers.

 

* * *

 

Skov almost doesn't want to go to the party on the Fourth. He's been so many times, though, it would feel strange not to. It's different every time, a little bit. The same result, just a different execution.

He ruffles the forgery’s hair and tells him he'll see him on the other side. Skov pretends he doesn’t have enough Kavinsky in him to know what that means. 

 

* * *

 

"Cheng's got the hots for you," he tells Jiang one muggy September afternoon. It comes off as disingenuous. Skov still wants to say it. Jiang has been a mess across every timeline he's known him; they all have. Skov doesn't actually know if Cheng wants Jiang in this alt. All he wants is for Jiang to take the chance and realize someone, somewhere wants the whole package.

Skov isn't that person but, goddamnit, someone has to be.

It was never going to be Proko. Jiang's got to know that. Proko belonged to K from the moment they met. Proko and Jiang were sweet on each other, innocent and gentle. Proko had a nurturing bent and Jiang said Proko reminded him of a younger brother back home.

(That's another thing: Jiang's stories never add up. His father's a politician but there are no Jiangs who hold that position. He has a younger brother but his country would never allow him to have a younger brother. There was never anything between him and Henry Cheng but Jiang won't talk about it and Cheng looks at him like a jealous ex.)

Kavinsky was never threatened by Proko and Jiang. He even wrote that innocent, schoolboy crush into the forgery's personality. Jiang picked up where they left off.

Definitely never going to be Proko.

If he knew more about Jiang, Skov might be better suited to help. The problem with Jiang is Skov _doesn’t_ know him, not like he knows the others. He met him in the mainline before he met him anywhere else.

Jiang might have been around before, an unnoticed background character. Or he could be an occasional passerby. Aglionby, Henrietta,  _America_  are just possibilities for Jiang. More often than not, they’re just that, possibilities. Not realities. He isn’t tied to this place.

When he does appear, the timelines are stranger and kinder.

Maybe Jiang's  _more_. Maybe he's just human.

Mostly, he belongs to Cheng. Sometimes he joins Kavinsky. Sometimes he doesn't. Often, usually, mostly, he's Cheng's through and through.

Regardless, he's a happy sign. This reality will be better than the ones that came before.

It says something that  _better_  is not the same as  _good_.

With Jiang's appearances being so infrequent, Skov doesn't learn to trust him. He doesn’t understand Jiang, his motives, his desires. His loyalties. He’s come to see Jiang as neither a threat nor an ally. Neutral hedging on comrade.

As the mainline continues, Jiang becomes someone Skov wants to see thrive. He becomes someone whose health, success, happiness is unbearably important. Jiang struggles. He trips and he falls, sliding farther behind every time he goes down, and this is a game Skov's never won before but, goddamnit, he's going to win now.

For all that Skov wants to see change, there's something terrifying about getting this close to someone you haven’t met a hundred times over.

Skov calculated it once, all the time he’s gained and lost. One week. That doesn’t sound like much, just one week gone from eighteen years of mainline life. Try living it. Skov's family likes to talk about the trip they took to Venice, the one where eleven-year-old Blake disappeared for three hours and nobody could find him. They searched for hours, fearing he’d wandered into a canal and drowned. They found him in the I Frari, staring at Titian's _Assunta_. He was right where they left him. Where he had left them.

One week, lost forever.

One hundred forty-seven lifetimes gained.

Lifetime is a loose term. Most of Skov’s “lifetimes” have only lasted a decade, age fifteen to mid-twenties. Twenty-two to twenty-four is the sweet spot. Some have lasted well into middle age; a few into seniority.

Thirty-five have only lasted a few minutes, the amount of time it takes to find a weapon and end an elegant boy’s life.

One hundred forty-seven lifetimes and Jiang’s only shown up in five of them.

 

* * *

 

Have you ever met someone so good at what they do, so perfect, that they lose touch with reality? They're at the top of their field, no one can do what they do, they are a god of their own making, and they just lose it.

Skov's no stranger to psychosis, drug-induced and -managed. The mind can be incredibly cruel.

The things Skov's destroyed could have been blackmail for centuries. Photos, letters, printouts of emails, all of them forgeries. He could have taken Dick Gansey down a hundred times over.

It wouldn't have been real. That matters to Skov. When you run with dreamers and you're half a dream yourself, reality starts mattering a whole lot.

 

* * *

 

K and Proko fall hard the first time they meet, every time. It doesn't matter how it happens- Skov introducing K to the kid whose family stands behind his at Holy Redeemer, K offering a cigarette to the Ukrainian boy who knows a handful of Bulgarian, Proko bursting into their lives with a fist and a busted lip- the end is always the same. They're magnets, perpetually drawn to each other and never any easier to separate. They fight because only a saint wouldn't fight with K but Proko returns every time, apologetic, and K doesn't hesitate before taking him back.

All of this makes the forgery that much harder to understand.

Skov understands why K made him. What he doesn't get is why K needed to make him in the first place. But he doesn't ask because that's one truth K will never tell and he spends dozens of lifetimes wondering. Every alt is different but Proko-and-K, K-and-Proko aren't one of the changes.

The forgery's wrongness gets to K. None of them have ever been perfect and Skov's come to the conclusion perfection isn't something K is going for. He means to change Proko. Skov, given the chance, would never rewrite Swan. That's not the way he wants things to go.

But it doesn't matter what Skov would do, it matters what K does. When half of him cashes in his chips, K fills the emptiness with an incomplete forgery and it doesn't make things right. He neglects the forgery, chases after another dreamer, and dies in despair, just another tragic queer love story.

Skov's real fucking tired of those.

 

* * *

 

"If he ever hurts you," Skov says, timeline after timeline, "come to me. I'll give you an out."

"What if I don't want an out?" Proko asks, fingers picking at the grain of his chinos.

"The question you should be asking," Skov says, "is what if you can't come to me?"

Proko smiles and there's too much understanding there. There's always too much understanding between the two of them.

"Would you save me from him?” he asks Skov. If Proko is K’s loyal right, Skov is his sinister left. Proko does K’s dirty work because K asks. Skov does it because morality and him don't have much to do with each other. “From myself?"

Skov's not smiling when he says, "Always."

 

* * *

 

"When he hurts you," Skov amends the first time he's alone with the forgery, timeline after timeline, "I'll set things right."

"Is that a promise?" the forgery asks because now he knows what the first Proko didn't. K has hurt him before and he'll hurt him again.

"You know it."

 

* * *

 

Every week after the Fourth, Skov gets in his car and he drives. It's more than a little nerve-wracking traveling so far along a ley line, but Skov goes because the forgery's earned it.

There's science behind talking to coma patients. It's supposed to help with recovery. Keep them alert. Give them hope.

There's no hope.

But Proko might be alert in there and Skov's not leaving him to rot just because he can't talk back. So he swallows his fear and he gets in his car, and he drives. He sits in an uncomfortable chair next to an unresponsive patient and he talks his ass off because, goddamn, lying in a bed this long is a torture in itself.

Skov never runs out of words but, sometimes, he stops thinking about what he's saying. His mind drifts and he remembers things he's kept under the surface, guilt and remorse, and anguish. Some lifetimes, it's not his fault Proko meets K. Some lifetimes, it is.

This is one of them.

Here's a secret that's not really a secret: if there were no K and no Swan, Skov and Proko might have been. 

That relationship would have been happier, more stable, more loving than what either of them ended up with. But a life without K and Swan isn't a life either of them would want, and this whatever between them remains as full of possibility as it is empty of probability.

Still, the emotions linger. Skov never forgets how he's loved Proko before and how close he is to loving him again, and Proko never forgets there's someone who's promised to catch him when K falls.

Skov caresses Proko's cheek. It's the sort of touch that would have a conscious Proko turning towards it, moaning softly, an infinite temptation.

This Proko doesn't as much as move. His chest rises and falls. The heart monitor beeps. He is a statue lying in this bed.

Skov's stalling. 

Don't ask Skov to do something for you. He'll do it. Maybe not exactly as you imagine, not as fast or as thoroughly but he'll do it. And there's some things you can't take back.

Skov's got a reset button on life. Why would he let these things bother him?

They bother him.

He leans over and kisses Proko's forehead.

A few more things need to fall into place. Then, Skov will finally be ready.

"Not today, sweetheart," he says. "Soon. Just- give me a little more time, okay?"

_I didn't forget._

 

* * *

 

Skov thinks about relationships a lot. The ties that bind people together, how they repeat or don't across the alts and the mainline. 

Skov, you have to remember, is not hurting for time. He doesn't try to notice what he does. Run through a level enough times, you start remembering shit.

Shit like K and Proko, K and the forgery, K and Lynch. Shit like Jiang and Cheng.

Skov wasn't lying when he said there's a timeline where Jiang dies at forty. Skov just never got around to telling Jiang the rest of the story. 

It's the great tragedy of MP Cheng's life. After his husband passes, he never remarries. There's a walk for awareness held every year in the man's honor. 

The reason Skov didn't tell Jiang all this the first time is because there are some things people need to figure out for themselves. Until Jiang is ready, he doesn't need to know how entwined his lives are with Cheng's. 

Because maybe they're not. Maybe the five times Skov's known Jiang are the outliers.

Five times is still better odds than none.

 

* * *

 

Swan doesn't care what Skov does in the alternate timelines. That's Skov's reality, not his.

But he likes to hear about the end, his own death. He even told Skov once, in a perfect echo of an alt Skov's never forgot, how he wanted it: hands around the throat, squeezing the air and life out of him. Giving control over completely. Trusting Skov to do it the way Swan wants.

He’s done it ever since.

 

* * *

 

Twice, Proko doesn't die. Skov never finds out what happens to him when he does. It's tragic, whatever it is, tears K apart like it would any decent person, even a first time murderer.

K is happier in those timelines. Not happy enough to live but happy. He's a better, nicer person. He looks at Proko like he adores him.

Skov prefers it when Proko doesn't live, for Proko's sake and his own. The aftermath is more methodical. Easier.

In this alt, he doesn't live. His friends mourn the loss even as they're forced to accept a new, imperfect version of him. It doesn't last. K's fragility makes itself known soon enough. He goes out in a blaze of glory and takes the forgery with him.

Skov goes underground and his mouth tastes like acid. He's only done this a few times. He hates it, the claustrophobic feeling and the cold rock. Someone's dying down here, and it’s not always just one person.

The sickest part is it's not going to be Skov. There is no easy out for him. His time here ends when Swan's does. Not before, never before, no matter what.

Skov remains unharmed while he watches a boy he's known for years fall with a crack, blood billowing out like smoke on his clothes.

And Gansey lives. He reanimates unholy like Rasputin, as despicable and as impossible to kill. Skov curses Lynch and his good fortune as he attends another memorial service. All he needed were a few more years. Then everything would have worked out.

Skov's learned his lesson. He wants his out.

He won’t take it.

Instead, he punches Lynch the day school starts up again. The woods can’t do much to him here. It begins and ends with Swan.

“Do you even know what you did?” he asks as he spits blood on Lynch’s shoes. “You’re cursed. Who’s gonna be next, Lynch? I fucking _hope_ it’s you.”

Lynch breaks his jaw. The woods put him in traction.

Life goes on.

At eighteen, Skov slips cyclobenzaprine into Proko's IV and watches him breathe his last. He pretends to panic when the nurses rush in and slips out before anyone can catch him. He's done this too many times to get caught.

It'll all be over in a few years. This will be a short timeline. He just has to wait. Run through the last few levels. The differences are spinning out, larger and larger ripples.

Swan's still around. It's been many lifetimes since Skov's lost track of him. Skov has to know how much longer he's stuck in this circular hell, this circular heaven, this second chance that becomes, every time, the same story told just a little bit differently. 

He needs, more than anything, to know when he gets to go home.

 

* * *

 

Swan is phenomenally beautiful. Skov is not. And, yet, he's the one who gets through.

Skov wants to drown himself in Swan, just shut out the world and _be_. He wants to fuck him into oblivion, until the thoughts run out of Swan's head and all that's left is the pleasure. He wants Swan to want him for more than just the sex, but hell if he doesn't love the sex.

It's exquisite even when Swan's strung taught, when he won't let Skov touch him the way he desperately wants. Skov wants to make those elegant toes curl, wants to see those long hands grasping, clenching in sheets. He wants to make Swan cry out, gasp, and shudder before collapsing, spent and exhausted.

If Swan would just let go, just give Skov control for a little while, he could make him feel so good.

Skov's patient. Swan will come around. He always does, even when Skov reins himself in and lets Swan choose his own path.

It's not hard, leaving Aglionby behind. When two of your friends die and a third disappears, you don't cling to friendship. You let it go and you pray you forget.

That's how it should be. That's not how it goes.

Every time, Swan finds him. Months, years, decades in the future, it doesn't matter. Eventually, he comes up to Skov at a kegger, at a reception, at a bar, and he says, "I know you" like he's greeting an old friend. His eyes are a gorgeous jet, his teeth white as ivory. He is stunningly, immeasurably perfect.

Every time, Skov looks at his friend, his lover, his _everything_ , and he can't bear to push him away.

 

* * *

 

He's eighteen and twenty-two when he finds himself in bed with Swan. It's familiar and not at all comfortable. This is it. This is the day Skov's going home.

It should be easy by now. 

It's the hardest thing in the world.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asks Swan, his hands wrapped around his lover's dark throat.

_Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner._

"Yes," Swan hisses, fire in his black-brown eyes.

Skov squeezes until there's no more air and Swan's body goes still.

He comes to in the backseat of his RX-7. Jiang stares at him from the passenger seat. His eyes look a little feverish, as though he’s been staring at Skov’s spot for a while, waiting for him to reappear. Skov would feel bad, except he's the one who has to live like this.

"Did you have fun?" Swan asks. “You were gone a half hour.” It doesn't sound like he cares. 

Skov tells himself that's a good thing. They're right on track. He tells himself he doesn't want Swan to care right now because caring means trust and trust means asking for things no one should ever ask for.

"I killed you," he tells Swan. He's always been too honest with Swan, subconsciously trying to push him away. "Hands around your throat and everything.”

Swan smiles wide and full of teeth and Skov knows he fucked it all up again.


	21. Chapter 21

Skov’s ducking in, moving through the cave like he knows what he’s doing. Swan knows what he says is true, he really does have some sort of future-knowledge from all of his trips, but there’s a difference between hearing things that turn out to be mostly true and seeing claustrophobic Skov move like he’s been here before.

Swan neglects to mention how many people have died in this cave recently.

They stumble upon markers and decide to follow them. It’s a difficult decision for Skov. There's no telling how old these markers are, when they were placed. There's also no more familiar rock formations and Jiang’s getting antsy.

Someone went this way. They'll take the chance.

As they follow the markers, they start to hear sounds other than running water. Voices. Footfalls. There are people in this cave.

 _Why are you doing this?_ Swan wonders.  _For Jiang? Or someone else?_

Skov’s more caring than he lets on. He’s good at hiding it and playing with people’s perceptions of him. Skov cares about Swan, everyone knows that, but he’s always kept a comfortable distance from anyone who wasn’t on a team. He got high with K, had long, weird conversations with him, but it didn't destroy him when K took himself out.

“You can get used to anything,” he told Swan. “Even dying. Three times a charm.”

Lies.

They keep going, the earthy scent at the entrance fading to the grittiness of dirt and then powdery dust. Swan's boots grow heavy with the mud caking them. His headlight is acting up. Jiang keeps trying to scramble ahead, impatient with their pace.

He wants to find Cheng.

There's a fierce joy rising in Swan's chest. Jiang  _wants_. Henry Cheng represents the potential for a better future for Jiang. Swan will do a lot to make that potential a reality, up to and including saving Cheng's scrawny ass.

Despite Jiang's attempts to speed things up, Skov keeps the pace steady. It's frustrating Jiang but he won't risk getting separated.

This cave is dangerous.

 

* * *

 

Ronan's singing stops.

“Jiang?” Ronan says in disbelief. Adam looks up and it is him, Kavinsky’s friend.

“Why are you here?” Adam asks, his eyes narrowing when he realizes Skov and Swan are there, too. They shouldn't be here. They shouldn't be able to exist in a place so close to Glendower.

“Oh, no reason,” Skov answers cheerfully. “’Cept Gansey is about to die.”

Ronan has him pinned to the wall before Adam realizes Skov didn’t mean it as a threat.

“Hey, hey!” Skov says, raising his gloved hands. “I’m not here to hurt anybody.”

Swan sighs. He looks dreadful, the skin under his eyes puffy with exhaustion, a new set of bruises ringing his dark neck and collarbones.

“What do you want, Skov?” Ronan asks. His teeth are bared in a jackal snarl.

“To stop you from getting another person killed.” Skov’s dropped the bullshit now. It’s bizarre, seeing someone who spends his weekends wearing a snapback and sleeveless shirts looking so serious and together, but Skov is nothing if not bizarre.

“What are you talking about?” Ronan demands.

Skov's not smiling now. 

“Whelk," he says, "those two guys who broke into your apartment, the hitman. K. Your  _father_. Gansey’s next.” Skov looks straight at Blue and Adam moves to stand in front of her. Blue splutters in indignation. “Aren’t I right, girl?”

Ronan slams him into the wall again, shoving his arm against Skov’s throat. “Don’t call her that,” he snarls.

“Oh, I’m sorry. What would she prefer to be called?  _Mirror_?”

“What-” Blue gasps as Adam’s stomach drops.

Skov snorts. “You thought you guys had a monopoly on the supernatural?”

“What do you know?” Ronan snarls, pressing his arm down until Skov chokes. Jiang and Swan watch, not interested in stopping Ronan.

“The better question is, what don’t  _you_  know?”

“I asked first.” Ronan presses down tighter, clearly enjoying the way Skov struggles for breath.

“Gansey- dies today,” Skov chokes out. “It’s- bad. Fucking- awful.”

Ronan pulls back. Skov sucks in a shuddering breath.

“You’re sure?”

Skov leans over, hands on his knees, and coughs, trying to get his breath back. He looks up, eyes sliding over to Swan and then back to Ronan. “I’m sure.”

“Why are you here then?" Ronan asks. "You don’t even like Gansey.”

Skov rubs his neck and doesn't answer. He looks to his companions. Swan folds his arms over his chest and sucks in his cheeks.

“Where are they? Gansey and Cheng?” It’s Jiang who asks, in that breathy, unnervingly sensual voice of his.

“We got separated,” Blue says. She’s avoiding Skov’s gaze. He’s smirking. He always was trash.

"Are we going to find Cheng or what?" Jiang asks testily. "If you guys don't want to come, point us in the way he went and we'll get out of your way."

His words stir something in Adam's mind, a memory. 

Jiang wasn't always one of Kavinsky's. He started at Aglionby the same year Adam did, only where Adam spent his first few weeks alone, Jiang got in with the Vancouver crowd. He didn't stay with them for long. Six months in, he ran headfirst into Kavinsky and abandoned the fast track to success for pills and booze. He spent the next two years vociferously proclaiming his hatred for Cheng.

Apparently, it's more complicated than Adam thought.

Jiang scoffs and takes a step down the path. Skov and Swan move to follow him.

"Wait," Adam says. Skov's the only one who turns back. "You said Gansey's going to die. Were you serious?"

"You tell me," Skov says, one side of his mouth curving upwards.

Ronan takes a threatening step towards him. Skov steps back, hands up.

"You have got to chill, dude," he says. Ronan glares. "Hell yeah, I'm serious. It's not my fucking fault you don’t believe me."

It's hard to believe Skov. Then again, it isn't. Too many times Skov has said things too spot on for a drug-addled mind. Things that have more in common with clairvoyance than weed thoughts. And then there's that strange seriousness that overcomes him sometimes, the one that makes it infinitely clear his frat boy attitude is all an act.

Adam has spent too much time connected to a magical forest not to recognize the signs of dabbling in the paranormal.

"When?" he asks Skov.

It's Swan who answers. "Soon," he says. "Within a few hours."

Swan's face shows nothing but boredom. His voice brooks no disagreement. Both of them, then. Jiang, too?

There's electricity in Jiang's eyes.

"Can we walk and talk or is this something we need to do here?" Jiang asks impatiently. Slight as he is, he's shivering, which means Blue must be freezing. They should get moving.

 

They follow the markers back to the fork and take the other path this time.

Cabeswater is whispering to Adam, telling him to be wary. There's something dangerous in this cave. The third sleeper, Piper Greenmantle, or both?

Water splashes under their feet.

"Watch out for the pools," Adam tells Blue. She glares at him.

"I can take care of myself."

The calcite embedded in the walls glitter. Adam's headlamp passes over cave crickets and tiny brown bats. And bones. Things have died down here, Dittleys and animals. Adam's heard stories of livestock going missing and turning up with broken necks in fresh sinkholes.

He's careful to step over the bones.

It's not long before they hear Gansey's excited voice. He's giving Cheng an impromptu lecture. Adam grins, hearing the familiar reasoning behind Gansey's search for Glendower. It's a watered-down version, one that doesn't involve Cabeswater's more magical qualities or finding Glendower's daughter in a shill grave.

"Adam!" Gansey says. It's thrilling to be the first Gansey acknowledges. He and Cheng are standing at a dead end, in front of a wall etched with a strange, elongated figure. Gansey has a rusted metal object in his hands.

"We have company," Adam says, gesturing behind him.

Cheng frowns.

"Jiang?" he asks.

Cabeswater is getting more insistent. Adam blinks. The walls aren't simply glittering: they're  _glowing_  with a soft light. The whispering is too quiet. He can't hear what the voices are saying.

All he knows is they need to get out of here.

Ronan reaches the dead end last. Gansey lifts his chin. Ronan jerks his head to the side.

"We're calling this off," Ronan says for everyone else's benefit. "Now."

 

* * *

 

"I'm sorry," Dick Gansey says.

Swan looks at him with undisguised malice. They're walking back. It's maybe an hour to get back to the entrance. Lynch, Parrish, and the girl are banking on that being enough time to get Gansey out.

Swan wants to laugh. He's never wrong.

"About Kavinsky," Gansey clarifies.

"Can it," Skov tells him. Lynch's glare is murderous. Still Gansey's dog, then. K used to think there was something there. Lynch is too closeted, though, and Gansey has his image to think about. For him, there's a difference between taming a wolf and fucking it. "We don't have time for your bullshit apologies."

It's satisfying to see how much it catches them unawares. Skov's good about hiding parts of himself. He shows the world what it wants to see, his personality fluctuating depending on who he's with. He's so rarely genuine that most people have stopped thinking he can be.

"Prick," the Sargent girl mutters.

Swan doesn’t like her. She feels empty, blank, like no one has ever dared to hit her. Residue clings to Parrish and Lynch, whispers around Gansey. There's none on her. It's strange, made stranger by the fact that she's witnessed at least one violent death. He knows. He was there.

It feels, sickeningly, like the puppet did when it came to Henrietta two Augusts ago and K made them call it Proko.

 

* * *

 

"Riddle me this, Blue Sargent," Blake says. They've fallen behind the group. Blue's legs are short and Blake apparently wants to talk. "How does the daughter of one of Henrietta's psychics get mixed up with Ronan Lynch of all people?"

"I knew Gansey first, Blake Skovron." She can play this game. There are no private elementary or middle schools in these parts. They went to the same schools. They were in the same grade. He was the weird kid with an abundance of money and imagination. She was creepy Orla’s less creepy cousin.

They knew of each other. They were not friends.

"Of course, Dick Gansey. Do you like him?"

Blue freezes. "What?"

"Do you like him? Personally, I don't."

"He's...okay." He might be Blue's true love. She's afraid for him. Come April, he'll have less than a month left to live. If what Blake said is true, it's much less than that.

"He's an overbearing tool."

 _You're a tool._  "I don't exactly trust your opinion of people, thanks."

Her ankle turns on a loose rock and she starts to fall. Blake grabs her arm. She stares at him, steady on her feet now, and yanks it away.

"What about Ronan Lynch?"

"Huh?"

"What do you think of Ronan Lynch?"

Blue's eyes narrow. 

"Why all the questions?" she asks.

"Just making conversation. I'm not really invested in this venture of ours."

"Then why did you come?" Blue snaps. There's something Gansey-like in the way he's talking. Like, like he's showing her only one of his many faces and this one isn't quite raven boy. "Ronan's fine."

"Really?" Blake asks.

Blue wants to say,  _I knew you when you were the ten-year-old everyone thought was crazy, don't you test me, boy._  She doesn't fully understand her mirror powers but there has to be some way she can do damage to this smug asshole. At the very least, she can shove him into a hole.

"He's a better person than you are," she says.

That might be true. Blue barely knew Blake in elementary and middle school. She's only heard stories about him now. It's all small town gossip, the stuff whispered by people who want to be scandalized.

Rumor has it, Blake's given up on girls and caught jungle fever. 

Rumor has it, you can see him out with that black raven boy at all hours of the day. 

Rumor has it, his parents don’t care.

Blake shrugs. "Maybe. Personally, I'd be happy if he fucked right off."

"I'm thinking the same thing about you right now."

Blake smiles. Blue catches it out of the corner of her eye. She shivers slightly. This boy is nothing like the weird kid she remembers.

"I'm on a rescue mission, Blue. Once I get the person I came here for, I'll be out of your-" He glances at her helmet and the mud-smeared spikes sticking out of it," -hair."

She scowls at him. "I like my hair just fine, Blake." 

Blake, Blake, Blake. There's something bothering her about that name. Something Orla said a few weeks ago? No, Jimi.

Blake is one of those names with an uncertain origin. It could be  _blaac_ , the Old English for black, or it could be  _blac_ , which meant white. 

"You," Jimi told Blue as she strained her morning tea, "shouldn't trust people whose names can't even decide what they are."

Blue swears.

"Hmm?" Blake asks. He goes by Skov now, even though it's not his full name. It's Skovron, whatever that means.

"Nothing. Didn't you used to have an imaginary pet goose that followed you around?" Nice, Blue. Real classy. Repeat rumors from when someone was the resident weirdo, like you were never one of the resident freaks.

"A swan," Blake says, amused. "Didn’t follow me around and  _he_ wasn't a pet."

"Hold on," Blue says, stopping. She can still see the others' lights up ahead. "A swan? A  _Swan_?"

A terrifying smile spreads across Blake's face.

"You're psychic," Blue says. She wants to punch something. Of course. Psychics don't have it easy growing up. Blue's heard the stories of how Calla got thrown out, how Persephone got institutionalized. How Jimi got addicted to anything and everything to make the voices and the visions stop. Orla hated school. She didn't come into her own until she got out and met her clients through the phone.

"That’s one way to put it," Blake says with an ease that says it's not at all easy for him to say.

"My family could have helped you."

"Who says I wanted them to?"

"You wouldn't have been alone."

"I wasn't alone."

Blue opens her mouth to say something and shuts it again. She's getting cold. She starts walking.

Blake made his choice. She can't feel bad about that. Blue's not psychic. She didn't know about him. He knew and never sought her family's help.

She can't feel bad.

She does.

"How old were you when it started happening?" she asks.

"Ten," he says, huffing to keep up. They've fallen a ways behind. Blue doesn't want to lose the others. “You?”

"I'm not psychic," she tells him. "The mirror stuff is different."

Blake doesn’t answer. They clamber over a fall of rock. Being small is an advantage in the cave. She actually has hand- and footholds. Blake is struggling.

"My aunt started using drugs to keep the visions away. It doesn't work. I mean, it does, for a little while, but then the visions and the voices come back and now you're addicted-"

"What are you trying to do?"

"Uh-"

"I don't need saving and definitely not by you."

Blue's cheeks color.

"You don't even know me," Blake adds as some sort of crappy afterthought.

"That doesn't mean I can't help you!"

"Why? When's the last time you helped anybody?"

"I help plenty of people, you fucking prick!"

"Woah, what's going on here?"

They've caught up with the others.

 

* * *

 

Ronan is not surprised to see Skov picked a fight. There's not a strong enough word for the kind of complete bastard that guy is.

Adam tries to get Blue to walk with him, which, bad move. Blue huffs and joins Ronan instead.

He looks at her and sees mostly helmet. Christ, she's short.

"What?" she snaps.

"He's just trying to irritate you," Ronan says, feeling uncharacteristically gracious.

"I’m fully aware Blake’s a dick, thanks."

Blake? She knows Skov's first name?

"Sorry for trying to make you feel better."

"Well, don't." She sighs. "I know him, okay? He moved to Henrietta in fifth grade. We went to elementary and middle school together."

"You were friends with him?"

Blue makes a rude noise. "No. He was super weird."

Ronan would not have thought Blue would be the judge-y type about that kind of thing.

"I think he's psychic," she says. "Like, he's clairvoyant or something close."

"You're saying  _Skov_  can see the future?"

"You can make dream objects, can't you? Why do you think he was with, you know, in the first place? Does he look like he belongs with that crowd?"

Ronan's not entirely sure what she means by “that crowd”. She is right, though, Skov has a different feel from, well. People.

Still,  _Skov_.

"Where the fuck is this entrance?" Ronan asks because this is not a conversation he cares about continuing. 

Blue is similarly eager for a distraction.


	22. Chapter 22

Jiang really should have thought this through.

Get this: saving Cheng means, ha ha ha ha,  _spending time with Cheng_.

Jiang may be freaking out a little. A lot. He's freaking out a lot. Because, seriously, what the fuck kind of signals is he sending, this is unraveling everything he's spent the last two years doing. Cheng is never going to leave him alone now.

(Not that Jiang ever wanted Cheng to leave him alone. He wanted- fuck, he doesn't know what he wanted. He just knows what he  _wants_ , present tense. He wants Cheng alive and well, and the fuck away from Dick Gansey and his dog. Lynch cannot be allowed to bring another bystander down, innocent or not.

Unless of course, that person is Dick Gansey, whose fate was sealed thirty days ago.)

"I know the marker was here somewhere," the psychic's daughter mutters and Jiang knows with certainty he made the right choice.

"Do you remember the way we came in?" Parrish quietly asks Gansey ten minutes later. 

Swan and Skov share a look, echoing the question between them.

"Perhaps," Gansey says. He lays a hand on Parrish's shoulder in reassurance. "Excelsior," he whispers loud enough for Jiang to hear. "Onward and upward."

 _That is not_ , Jiang thinks,  _what that word means_.

No one says what they're all thinking. They stay quiet on the obvious and follow the only path this cave presents: forward. It twists and turns. There are myriad holes, cracks, and crevices but they didn't come from those and it isn't to those they will return.

Jiang doesn't remember the path looking like this. It was different from the other side. On the way in, Skov kept looking over his shoulder, memorizing the way they came. There's something unsettlingly new about the way they're going.

Jiang hopes he wasn't paying enough attention. He hopes but he doesn't believe.

There's an unease growing. The others have begun to pick up on what Jiang, in his anxiety-induced hypervigilance, already has: the trippy feeling this path isn't the same as it was.

What remains to be seen is whether they'll notice there are footfalls in this cave that aren't theirs.

 

* * *

 

The markers are gone.

It isn't that they took a wrong turn or doubled back. Neither Gansey's markers nor the flagging tape Skov put down are anywhere to be found.

"Are you sure you didn't pick the markers up on your way in?" Adam asks, crouching down and examining the wall.

"Yeah, that's totally a thing I'd do," Skov says. "Fuck my only way out of here."

There's a faint impression in the mud layered on top of the rock. Not so long ago, there was a disc here. Adam can even see a flat strip where Skov's flagging tape must have been.

The cave is playing with them.

Or, perhaps more deadly, one of the sleepers is.

"We can keep going straight," Adam says. "The marker  _was_  here. We should be fine if we follow the path." 

"Where'd the marker go?" Blue asks. It's the question Adam was hoping no one would ask.

"I don't know," he replies. "It's possible some animal moved it."

Blue looks at him dubiously. Adam stands his ground. This is not the time to be bringing up ley lines and magic forests. What Cheng doesn't know, he can't question.

"Should we keep going?" Adam asks Gansey.

"I see no other option."

How soon is "soon"? How bad is "fucking awful"?

Gansey is entirely too flippant in the face of his own death.

Time has passed. No one knows how much. Ronan hasn't kept up his singing and watches don't work down here. Or they do but they can't be trusted. Human understanding of time is nothing to places like this.

"There's only the one path," Ronan says gruffly. "How much can we mess this up?"

Sometimes Adam wonders if Ronan hears himself speak.

The nonchalance is reassuring, though. Adam can't shake the feeling they're meant to be in this cave. Today is the day they find Glendower. He's been hearing whispers and they're growing louder.

Glendower is close.

Eight years ago, Cabeswater told Gansey he would live because of Glendower. He is destined to find the sleeping king.

 _It's the cave_ , Adam tells himself.  _The markers are disappearing because_   _Glendower is in Jesse Dittley's cave. And we're going to be the ones to wake him._

"Not that much," Adam tells Ronan. "Not that much at all."

 

* * *

 

 

The whispers, so jumbled before, are beginning to make sense now.

_Rex Corvus, parate Regis Corvi._

_The Raven King, make way for the Raven King._

Adam has heard these words twice before. Once when he was miles to the north, in D.C. The other in Cabeswater, in the cave of ravens.

Swan grabs Adam's arm.

Adam looks at him. He sees an emotion he can't name pass over that handsome, dark face.

"What," Swan asks, "is  _Rex Corvus_?"

"You can hear it," Adam says and even to his own ear, his voice sounds distant, dreamy. Cabeswater is calling and now is not the time to ignore it. "Glendower. Glendower is the Raven King."

They are close. They have to be.

Wake the sleeping hero and he will grant you a favor. That's what all the legends say. There are many sleeping heroes. Barbarossa, Marmaromenos, St. Wenceslas, Fionn mac Cumhaill. They all say the same thing: the sleeping hero, the king in the mountain, the ageless man, will be awoken in his country's time of need. Glendower, it is further promised, will be indebted to the one who wakes him.

The cave is trying to keep them here. This is where they will find Glendower.

Blue saw Gansey's spirit last April. He  _will_  die before St. Mark's Eve. Nothing can stop that.

But, if Gansey dies today, like Skov and Swan say he will, Adam can stop that death from having permanence. All he has to do is find Glendower and use the favor to bring Gansey back.

"Is that why you are here? You think you will be the ones to find him?" Swan asks.

The surprise must show on Adam's face.

"You are not the first to go looking for this Glyndŵr," Swan says and Adam doesn't miss how he pronounces the name. "Many have before. None have succeeded."

"How do you know about Glendower?" Adam asks.

Swan smiles thinly. "Everyone knows Dick Gansey's been looking for his Welsh king."

It's not an answer.

"What happened to the woman?" Swan asks.

Adam frowns.

"What woman?"

"The one Glyndŵr's men left down here four hundred years ago." Swan looks closer to his usual pissed off self. No, it's more than that. He's  _angry_. "They raped her, did you know? They tore her body apart and then they left her in that grave, knowing she was still alive."

Adam's heart freezes.

Gwenllian. He means Gwenllian.

"How-"

Swan touches Adam's cheek, just the tip of one long finger against Adam's skin. His touch burns cold as liquid nitrogen.

"The blood touched you here, didn't it," Swan asks, "when it fell from the sky?"

 

* * *

 

For the last twenty minutes, Blue's been debating whether Jiang's on something. He's twitchy and more than a little jumpy. He keeps glancing around like he's hearing something that's not there. He flinches every time anyone gets close to him.

Blue doesn't know much about drugs but she has an idea of what it looks like when someone is on a bad trip. Jiang fits the bill.

She's ready to say something, a simple  _chill out, the monsters in your head aren't real_ , when she hears it, too.

Footsteps.

There's someone else in the cave with them.

Actually, someone else _s_. Blue's a little too struck by the gorgeous woman so obviously in charge to pay much attention to her plump companion. The blonde woman makes caving helmets look good. Blue fingers her muddy hair. She isn't jealous. It's more sheer wonder.

Ronan grabs the back of Adam's shirt.

“That’s Piper Greenmantle,” he says. “What’s she doing here?”

“She's not alone,” Adam hisses.

Blue scans the cave, taking note of the seven boys behind and before her. The cave's other occupants haven't taken notice of them. They walk with purpose, intent on some mysterious goal.

There are only two of them. Piper and a plump woman who looks awfully like...

“Neeve,” Blue breathes.

It takes Ronan a minute.

“You aunt? I thought she disappeared.”

She did. The last time Blue saw Neeve was almost a year ago when she was trying to sacrifice a Latin teacher to wake the corpse road. She vanished that night and hasn't been seen since.

“Yeah, well," Blue says, "so did Buttercup.”

Now Blue recognizes the beautiful woman, although there's something unmistakably changed about her since they last saw one another.

It was in this cave, the day Blue met her father for the first time.

"Are you a real person?" the woman asked, pointing a flashlight in Blue's face. She had been beautiful then, too, and in the company of a man who looked cowed in a way that satisfied something deep inside Blue.

"Yes, I'm a real person!" Blue said indignantly.

"Good," the woman replied. "Now go away, strange girl."

And, just like that, they parted ways, ships passing in the night.

There were loud, muffled bangs sometime later and a cave-in. Blue was too concerned with getting her parents out of Jesse Dittley's cave to wonder at the woman's fate.

She hopes, belatedly, the woman hasn't been stuck in the cave all this time.

It is certainly possible. Maura was down here for months; Artemus for years. Time passes differently down here, people suffering few ill effects under the cave's thrall. The third sleeper's whispers could keep a person trapped for a very long time.

Piper Greenmantle. Blue weighs the name in her mouth. Piper Greenmantle is Colin Greenmantle's wife. Colin Greenmantle is the man who came to replace the hitman Joseph Kavinsky shot dead. Joseph Kavinsky is the boy who killed himself last summer in front of a crowd of hundreds on the Fourth of July.

For a psychic's daughter, Blue's life has become improbably strange.

"What are you doing here, Neeve?" she asks. The words come out cold and brittle. Blue has never called her family members by their titles and she isn't going to start now, but she can hear how it must sound. Neeve. What little warmth she once had for her half aunt cannot be found in Blue's voice now.

"It is good to see you again, Blue. How is your mother?"

"Fine," Blue replies tersely. "I see you've found yourself a new victim."

"Yes," Neeve says. "I have."

What do psychics see when they look at people? Blue has never wondered that before but she wonders it now. Does Neeve know why they're here?

The better question is, why is  _Neeve_  here?

Before Neeve disappeared, she had been looking for something. Very likely, that something had been Cabeswater, considering it was there that she disappeared in the midst of a ritual Barrington Whelk would not have thought to plan himself.

"We seem to have lost our way," Blue says carefully. "You wouldn't happen to know where the entrance is, would you?"

Neeve shakes her head sadly. It looks unbelievably fake. "I have been wandering these caverns for a while now. If I knew the way out, I would have taken it."

Blue would not place money on those words.

"And who are you?" Blue asks Piper. She knows who Piper is, of course, by name if not by face. Piper's the wife of one Colin Greenmantle, who arrived in Henrietta after sending a cadre of people looking for the Greywaren. Only the fact that he's yet to catch on to the fact the Greywaren is a  _he_  and not an  _it_  has kept him from realizing Ronan's peculiarities.

Although Ronan knows his.

They wanted to know whether this strange new Latin teacher, the one who was clearly independently wealthy and not particularly interested in the subject he was teaching, was doing in Henrietta. So Adam or Ronan, Blue isn't sure which, took a pen from his desk, one he used every day, and brought it to Calla.

What she told them was damning.

Colin Greenmantle was not here to teach Latin, nor to find the ley line. He already knew it was in Henrietta. He was after the Greywaren.  _He_  was the employer who ordered the hitman to kill Ronan's father. Blue and her boys would have to work very hard to get Greenmantle to leave before he found what he was looking for.

Piper purses her lips. "I think you already know."

"I might," Blue says, shrugging one shoulder diffidently. "I might not."

"How about we go our separate ways and call this even?" Blake asks. Blue can't tell whether she's annoyed or relieved by the interruption. Maybe he'll aggravate them enough that they go away. Blue can deal with never seeing Neeve again. "We don't want to bother you. I'm sure you have things you'd rather be doing."

"Oh," Neeve says, "we really don't."

"Neeve," Piper says. "Can I talk to you?" She pulls Neeve to the side and they argue in harsh undertones. They bicker with the air of people who have been bickering for a very long time and don't expect to stop simply because they have company. 

"We don't need them," Blue catches Piper saying. "We should go our own way."

"Be patient," Neeve replies. "He's the one fated to wake the first sleeper."

Gansey seizes on her words.

"Glendower?" he asks. "You know where Glendower is?"

"Oh, yes," Neeve says. "I do."

 

* * *

 

"What do you want in return?" Adam demands. Neeve must want something. He couldn't hear what she was saying to Piper but there must be a catch.

"I want to meet him," Neeve says. "A man as ancient as him must have knowledge lost to this world."

Adam doubts that. But then he saw what she was really prepared to do that night. Piper Greenmantle is not the only viper in this cave.

Neeve looks at Adam as though she knows what he's thinking. Good. Let her be wary. She wanted to harness the ley line and yet it is Adam who has Cabeswater and Ronan who can mold that energy into something new and magnificent. Neeve wants their help finding Glendower. She must think she will be the one to get the favor.

"I know where he is but, since it is not my destiny to wake him, I cannot go to him alone. You can. We need each other, you see." Neeve smiles and claps her hands together under her chin. "Come then. I'll take you to the first sleeper."

Adam glances at their unwelcome company. For some reason, his eyes go to Skov, who gives him a nearly imperceptible head shake. And Adam gets it.

Skov does not care about Glendower. Skov wants to get Cheng and get out. Whatever he saw, whatever he knows, has already been relayed. This is the end of the line for him.

"Alright," Adam says because Neeve is watching him. Gansey is chomping at the bit, but she doesn't need to know that if she doesn't already. "We'll go."

 

* * *

 

"You're coming with us," Skov tells Cheng when he moves to follow, grabbing his shoulder hard enough to stop him in his tracks. "Unless you feel like snuffing it today."

"What are you  _talking_  about?" Cheng asks.

"You follow those women," Skov says, jerking a thumb at Neeve and Greenmantle's wife, "I can't promise you get out of this cave alive." 

"Gansey certainly isn't," Jiang mutters. Cheng's eyes flick to his face, his eyes, his mouth. The look is brief, hungry, heated.

"Right-o," Skov agrees.

"What?" Cheng asks.

"Gansey's number is up." Skov glances at his wrist. He tsks at whatever he sees on the watch face. "He's got, oh, an hour or two at most. None of us wants to be here when that happens."

"Is this your idea of a sick joke?" Cheng asks angrily.

"He doesn't know?" Skov asks Jiang.

Jiang shrugs. "It never really came up."

Swan rolls his eyes. Wonderful.

"We don't have time for a long explanation, Cheng. Let's just say one of those women has attempted murder and the other helped hire the guy who killed Lynch's father. They do not have Gansey boy's best interest at heart."

Swan is positive he didn't tell Skov his suspicions about the chubby woman (Neeve? Swan thinks that's her name). He only just met her, after all. He hasn't had time to tell Skov that Neeve does not feel empty like her niece. There are hints of violence, of murder in the air around her. She is a woman who has failed to grasp power before and who will do anything to obtain it now. 

Gansey, that incautious witling, fell for her poison-honey words. As Skov almost certainly knew she would.

Swan is going to smack Skov the first chance he gets. 

"Then let's go with them," Cheng insists gallantly. "Stop them from whatever they're going to do."

Skov groans and rubs his face. Swan gives Jiang a Look.

"Okay, let's try this again," Skov says. "Swan here is psychic. I'm not talking fortune telling,  _saju_ ,  _suànmìng_ , any of that shit. Swan straight up  _knows_  Gansey's gonna die today and Swan doesn't do wrong. It's gonna happen. What we don't know is whether you are going to be joining him. So put on your big boy panties and let's get the fuck out of this cave."

"No," Cheng says.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"No," Cheng repeats. "I'm not going to let Dick die. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Fucking shit. Jiang's gone and got himself a white knight. Cheng's not just annoying, he's an  _idiot_.

"Are you serious right now?" Skov asks.

"Are you?" Cheng replies, getting up in Skov's face. Skov crosses his arms over his chest and smiles unpleasantly. "You're going to let someone die because, what, you're too scared to help him?"

"I already told you: we  _can't save him_. What about psychic do you not get?"

"You're really just going to stand by and let this happen," Cheng says, shaking his head.

"Yep," Skov tells him.

What Skov's saying is true: they can't save Gansey. 

What goes unsaid is that they won’t try. 

In the first place, neither of them harbors any affection for Dick Gansey. In the second, well. The surest way to get to Lynch is to get to Gansey.

Gansey's slated to die. They can't stop that. Swan's never wrong. Skov's played through this same scenario dozens of times. It's going to happen.

What they can do is grab Cheng and get the hell out of Dodge. They can revel in the thought that they were there and did nothing, that they somehow contributed to the pain Lynch will feel when the boy he calls brother dies in front of him.

"The only people who can help him," Skov says, "are those three. You said you've seen what Parrish can do?"

Cheng grunts an affirmative.

"Lynch and Blue- the girl- can do shit, too. Gansey's gonna be dead in an hour. D- E- A- D. I can't resurrect the dead. Can you? No, you fucking can't. We're getting out of here and you are, too."

Predictably, Cheng doesn't listen. He breaks from the group and races after Dick Gansey. White fucking knight.

"Real catch you have there," Swan drawls. Jiang flips him off. "Let's get out of here."

Jiang sucks in a breath and blows it out. "I'm staying."

"For him?" Skov asks in disbelief.

Jiang smiles weakly. This is what they came here for, after all.

"Yeah."

 

* * *

 

"We're leaving Jiang behind," Swan says dubiously. He's perched on a rock, alone but for Skov. The others' voices have faded.  _Rex Corvus, parate Regis Corvi_  loops in Swan's ear, quieter than before.

They call her a mirror. Skov says she's more like an amplifier. Swan's only run into her a few times, yet he tends to agree.

"Of course not," Skov replies. "Just give me a minute."

Skov's fiddling with something against the wall.

"Fuck," he says.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing. The clock on my phone still isn't working."

Swan grits his teeth. "Are we...?"

"Nah. But somewhere similar. The two places are connected."

There's a place in Henrietta's woods. K called it the dream place, the source of his power. Swan knows it as the place where Czerny died almost eight years ago, where Whelk was trampled last April. 

Time does not function the same there as it does elsewhere. Swan's internal clock is saying Gansey's number is almost up. In reality, he could have much more or less than that.

"We need to get Jiang and Cheng out of here," Swan tells Skov. "The sooner the better."

"Noted. One problem: how do you plan on doing that?"

 

* * *

 

The first clue should have been that the whispers had gone silent.

It should have been. Adam was just too focused on Gansey and keeping him away from Neeve and Piper to pay attention. He was thinking about the favor and how much time they would have to use it. He was not paying attention to the path or how oddly similar certain formations looked, as though he were seeing the same ones from a different angle.

He's walking in front of Gansey and behind Neeve when it happens.

A strip of muddy, orange flagging tape slips from Neeve's pocket and flutters to the ground. The color is identical to the roll that was hanging out of Skov's pocket.

Blue's expression sours. Ronan explodes.

He shoves Neeve so suddenly she falls to the cave floor. Ronan places one mud-caked boot in the middle of her back. He presses down, grinding her chest into the cave floor.

As if to punctuate the moment, a marker disc rolls out of Neeve's pocket. It bounces jauntily on the hard ground before coming to a stop at Gansey's feet.

"Neeve, Neeve, Neeve," Ronan tuts, putting his weight onto his foot for good measure. "You just can't stop scheming, can you?"

Adam drops to his haunches. He places a hand next to Neeve's face to steady himself. She splutters and spits out mud.

"Why did you take the markers, Neeve?" Adam asks pleasantly. "I thought you wanted our help."

"I do," she says plaintively. "I can't do this alone."

"Answer the question, Neeve."

She shuts her mouth tight.

"Be that way," Adam says. "You'll tell us soon enough."

He stands up. "I'm going to guess she wanted us to get lost," he tells Ronan and Blue. He avoids Gansey's gaze and looks straight at Jiang and Cheng. "That way she could swoop in and save us."

Gansey doesn't know it's going to be today. None of them are going to tell him until it's absolutely necessary. Neeve is playing games. That's all Gansey needs to know.

Ronan wraps the rope around her wrists. He shoves her and all Adam can think is this is not someone they want to make angrier than she already is.

"Lead on," Ronan says, " _Neeve_." Coming from his mouth, her name might as well be a curse.

Neeve glares and shuffles forward.

She leads them through winding curves and down paths Adam hadn't noticed before. Where before there was only the one path, now dozens erupt before them. Upper and lower, holes, cracks in rock. Mud everywhere. Rock everywhere.

Adam's head aches. Cabeswater is trying to push its way in. Everything Adam has is directed towards maintaining control.

Because if he doesn't? Cabeswater is going to kill somebody.

Forests don't get angry. They don't think in human emotions. But they have a deep-seated understanding of right and wrong. The Greywaren is right. Piper and Neeve are wrong.

The problem isn't that Adam disagrees. It's that he has limits and Cabeswater, Cabeswater does not.

Neeve leads them farther into the cave. Adam can't suppress the feeling that there is a difference between farther and deeper, between going forward and getting closer to Glendower.

His visions blurs.

Skov's blue ice eyes stare at him from behind a boulder. Swan is dark and quiet beside him. There is rage there and, oddly, impatience.

Adam blinks and he sees what he didn't before: there may be a hundred paths in this cave but Neeve is only leading them in circles. Again.

A cavern opens in front of Adam. It is large as a ballroom, the ceiling so high roots hang loose. Water trickles down the walls, drip, drip, dripping to the floor, forming the beginnings of the next generation of stalactites.

Adam suddenly realizes he has not seen Piper in many moments.

As a low hissing fills the cavern, Neeve kicks Ronan in the shin. He's caught off guard and he goes down, taking Gansey and Cheng with him. Blue tries to trap her aunt but she's too slick. Neeve cackles as she scuttles away.

 


	23. Chapter 23

Last summer, at the tail end of June, before things fell to pieces, a ghost came to Swan.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said in a voice that lacked color. A trail of blood trickled from the bullet hole where his third eye would be. "Now something much worse than me is going to come."

"Well," Swan said, "that's our problem, not yours."

"Yes," the ghost replied. "It is."

That was all the hitman said to Swan. He came once, delivered his message, and left.

 _Is this_ , Swan thinks as he watches a woman transform into a waking nightmare,  _what you were talking about?_

 

* * *

 

 

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Piper sing-songs. She sways and lurches across the cavern, unused to her new form and its too many legs. "Don't be afraid, children. I won't bite. Much."

Her beady insect eyes search the cavern.

"Where are you?" she coos. "Don't you know it's rude to keep a lady waiting?"

Gansey and them better have a plan. They better be hiding out, formulating a plot that's going to get them out of this situation, because Skov's seen this go down before and it ain't pretty.

He skirts the edge of the cavern, Swan right behind him, intent on their goal. It doesn't take long to find who they're looking for.

"You couldn't fucking listen, could you?" Jiang is hissing. He's got Cheng's sleeve in his grip and he's holding him firmly out of the monster's line of sight. Piper's gone almost full-insect now. A slick, black exoskeleton covers her once pleasant features. Wisps of blonde hair cling to her rapidly disappearing scalp. The needle-like legs sprouting from her abdomen wriggle in a disturbingly centipede-like fashion. "Lynch is bad fucking news, man."

"I'm not here with Lynch."

Jiang rolls his eyes. "My bad. You're only here with Dick Gansey, his other fucking half. Totally different thing." He's so angry a fool like Cheng might believe it's about an inability to listen.

"What is that thing?" Cheng asks, all shaky bravado and piss.

"What's going to kill Gansey," Skov answers as he drops down beside them. He glances up at the insectoid monstrosity formerly known as Piper Greenmantle. "Probably."

"I thought you were leaving," Jiang says, raising an eyebrow.

"Figured you might need a little help with the whole murderous bug lady thing. Also," Skov adds, "I wouldn't mind seeing III get gutted."

Jiang snorts and goes back to watching Piper.

"What _is_ that thing?" Cheng repeats.

Cheng needs to get with the program, ASAP. Skov is starting to wonder what Dick Gansey told him his ultimate goal was because most people start suspending disbelief around the time they agree to go looking for a sleeping king.

"They called it the third sleeper," Swan says. "Very powerful, very dangerous. Greenmantle's wife must have had it hidden on her person."

"He can talk?" Cheng asks Jiang.

Swan gives Jiang a look. _Way to pick them,_ it says _, your boy's an asshole._

Jiang gives him a look in return. It's less _he's not mine_ and more _shit fuck goddamn, I did not know he was going to say that._

"About as much as you can't not," Swan answers Cheng. He sneers and, oh, fuck, now is not the time for Skov to be getting turned on. "We need to get out of here. Immediately."

"Working on it," Skov says. "Don't suppose you've found a way out?" This is directed at Cheng.

"You haven't?" Cheng asks.

"I normally don't spend this much time in subterranean caverns so no."

Swan swears, Spanish and vile.

"Right back atcha," Skov snipes. "Duck."

"What?"

"I said, duck!" Skov grabs Cheng and Jiang and throws them to the ground behind a formation. Something hot and acrid-smelling tears through the air and slams into the rock. It explodes, showering fragments and mud everywhere.

Skov's eyes search the cavern. Where did that fucker go? There.

"Stay here," he tells Cheng since he's the dumbshit they have to worry about. Jiang's eyes are trained on Piper. He's not going anywhere.

Swan reaches out and brushes Skov's elbow with his glove, his _come back_  loud and clear. Skov squeezes his wrist. Then he's off, going after one of the only two people who can get them out of this mess.

Lynch, the idiot, is standing frozen in plain sight. Skov hates that it's a luxury he can afford. Nothing will touch Lynch down here so long as the woods exist.

Skov shoves his hand deep into his pocket. His fingers close around an oblong shape. Thank God he had some in his car.

"Take this," Skov tells Lynch, seizing his wrist and forcing the object into his hand.

Lynch looks at the green pill in his hand uncomprehendingly.

"What do you want me to do with this?"

"Dream something!" Skov retorts. It should be obvious. K would have understood in a heartbeat, would have been gone and back by now, shiny new chrome in his hand.

"Like what?"

Skov despises him.

"Like what.  _Like what_. Are you fucking kidding me?! Use your imagination. Make a gun, a bazooka, a tank for all I care! Give us something we can use!"

"I-"

Skov cuts him off. "Try to be a little less useless, Lynch. Swallow the pill, get in, get what you need, and get out. I know you've done this before." A dreamer without imagination. How is that possible?

Lynch looks at the pill in his palm, then at Skov.

"What  _are_  you?" he asks.

 

* * *

 

Tell me, K used to say, when they were alone and high enough to pretend they weren't both deadly serious. Tell me what I am, what you are, what Swan is. Tell me why these things happen. Tell me why Parrish is special, why Matthew Lynch never gets sick, why Tad Carruthers never seems to breathe.

Tell me: what does this power mean?

Tell me: am I still human?

You were named after the most beautiful man who ever was, Skov would tell him. He was a dreamer, too. He had a hard life but he rose to greatness.

 _You won't rise to greatness. You won't live long enough_ , Skov could have said. He didn't. He wouldn't hasten the inevitable.

You can do these things, K, because there's a current of energy running through Henrietta. There's one that runs through your hometown, too.

Parrish woke the current. That's why Parrish is special.

What am I? What is Swan? Cursed.

Matthew Lynch isn't truly alive. Neither is Carruthers.

Stop asking me questions, he'd say when K got too close to learning a truth that mattered. That's enough for today. 

The jester is tired.

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm the closest thing Kavinsky had to a sibling," Skov tells Lynch. "Now are you going to take the pill or not?"

Lynch takes the pill. He shoves it to the back of his throat and swallows, Adam's apple bobbing as it goes down. Then he sits with his back against a stalactite and his chin tilted upwards, and he dreams.

 

* * *

 

 

_In and out. Like a motherfucking thief._

That's how Kavinsky described it what feels like yesterday and twenty years ago.

Cabeswater is quiet compared to the uproar that is the waking world.

Ronan needs to bring something back. What does he need?

He doesn't know.

This isn't what he  _does_.

Gansey's dying, Gansey's dying, Gansey's dying.

It's only March. He's supposed to have a month left. They're supposed to have  _time_.

In

Out

In

Out

What does he need?

A weapon.

In

Out

In

Out

What kind?

Objects appear in the dream place. Guns, pistols, shotguns. A bazooka, like Skov said. At least, what Ronan imagines a bazooka looks like. He doesn't know these weapons, how they function, how they tick.

If he brings one back, Ronan can't be sure it will work.

That's not a good enough reason not to try.

He grabs the only functional-looking gun and wills himself to wake.

 

* * *

 

"Here," Lynch says, placing the weapon in Skov's hands.

Skov hefts the gun, feeling its weight. It is nothing like what K would make. This is a gun made by someone who has never become familiar with weapons stronger than his own fists, who thinks gun goes with words like  _thug_  and  _gang violence,_  not  _relief_ and  _protection._

But it's cold, heavy chrome, Skov will give him that. He attempts to detach the magazine to count the bullets inside and finds he can't.

"Goddamn, you're shit at this," he tells Lynch. "This better fucking fire."

Lynch bares his teeth with a jackal snarl.

"It will."

 

* * *

 

 

Piper calls out to them. Her voice is so distorted by the mandibles growing from her mouth Jiang can't understand what she's saying.

"We have to check on the others," Cheng says, making to stand up. Swan pulls him back down.

"We really don't," he says. "I don't know what's unclear about ‘Gansey's going to fucking die’ but I'd rather not be near Parrish or the girl when that happens."

Jiang is secretly pleased Swan doesn't find Lynch all that threatening. People get hurt around him but it's like, in a bad luck charm kind of way.

"I'm not going to let Gansey die. What the hell is wrong with you? We have to rescue him." It's not a suggestion. Within seconds, Cheng is up and going, off to fight for Dick Gansey's life.

Swan groans and massages the bridge of his nose.

"No," he says to Cheng's back. "We have to rescue  _you_."

 

* * *

 

 

Skov aims a gun at Piper Greenmantle.

"Let us go and I won't shoot," Skov says calmly.

Skov's got a gun. Where did Skov get a gun? Jiang knows for a fact he didn't have it on him when they came in here- he would have seen it- and he knows, too, that there is something decidedly off about the weapon.

Lynch.

The gun is a dream. This could be either very bad or very good, depending on how good a dreamer Lynch has become.

"Do you think I'm afraid of you?" Piper asks, cocking her own gun at him.

"No," Skov says, "but we're no threat to you. We just want to get out of this cave. Try and stop us and you'll get lead to the face."

"You don't have the guts," Piper snarls.

Skov pulls the trigger. A sound louder than sound has a right to be explodes from the muzzle of Lynch's gun. Time slows as Jiang watches the bullet flying through the air.

Except this isn't Jiang's mind slowing things down. This isn't hypervigilance making time drag. This is  _magic_.

The bullet slows and slows until it's turning slowly in midair.

Piper plucks the bullet from the air in front of her. She smiles coldly. With a foul blast of burning ozone, the bullet spins and comes flying back at Skov. It misses.

Skov shoots again and again, but the shot doesn't hit, none of them hit. Piper sends the bullets back every time. Lynch's dream has no effect on her.

"Shit," Skov swears to himself. He drops to the ground, gun held at his side. "God fucking  _shit_. It was supposed to be Jiang!"

"What?" Jiang asks. What is he talking about? The bullet missed. Jiang saw it.

Skov lifts the gun and shoots blindly. There’s a feminine shriek.

"You were the one who was supposed to get shot," Skov says, eyes wild, words too fast. "It was supposed to be you!"

"You were going to let me get shot?!" Thank God Piper can't aim for shit.

"I wasn't going to let anyone get shot! It just happened," Skov snaps.

What? No one got shot. The bullets missed. Piper turned them back and-

There’s a ragged breath behind him. Jiang's heart stutters. He turns in time to see Swan collapse against the wall and slide to the ground. He's clutching his side, red spreading under his hand. His face has turned ashen.

Skov drops down next to him. He pulls off his hoodie and presses it to Swan's side, and Jiang can already see it getting drenched.

"Swan," Skov says, voice panicked, "Swan, stay with me."

 


	24. Chapter 24

Skov's bullets are no match for the third sleeper. They can cause no damage for all that they are a valuable distraction. Adam needs time, and Blue and Ronan are otherwise occupied.

Adam plunges into himself, calming his whirlwind thoughts. He calls on Cabeswater and it answers. Power pours into him, quick and sharp as gasoline.

Tree roots descend from the ceiling. They flare out to create a tangled net, confusing Piper, making it impossible for her to get to Gansey. Adam can't tell what Blue's doing and he doesn't see Ronan but they're fine, they must be. The mirror and the Greywaren can protect themselves.

That last thought was not Adam's and it was not in English.

Cabeswater speaks in a language that is part Latin, part language of the trees. Adam doesn't understand it all but he understands enough.

Piper and the third sleeper have become one being.

That being threatens Adam's existence.

That being must be stopped.

But first, Adam must deal with the seer. How dare she try to trick them? They are ancient, they are timeless, they have always known where the sleeping king lies. Now is the time to find him. The human boy will do it, not this unworthy seer.

She tried to wake them. She would have perverted them with her sacrifice. You cannot spill the blood of the sensate and expect the forest to be grateful.

"Where is the king?" they ask.

"I don't know," she says, eyes darting and full of fear. She knows.

They take the seer's pathetically delicate wrist in their hand. With the strength of a forest, they press down until the seer's wrist snaps. She screams. The sound is distant in their ear, unimportant.

The third sleeper must be dealt with.

A shot rings out. It is no dull, weak, pathetic, human creation but one of theirs. They smile. Their Greywaren has learned to use their power correctly.

The world fades to a dull roar. Wind rips through their trees with the force of a hurricane. They send it underground to this place that is not theirs and yet is. They are stronger than the Cabeswater that rules this place. They press and overtake it.

 _We will rid you of this menace_ , they promise the other Cabeswater.

Wind tears into the cavern at 110 miles per hour. It howls and shrieks, intent on its prize. Rock and earth it carries with it, pieces so large a weaker wind would drop them.

"Get down!" a human voice roars and it is their Greywaren, protecting his own. He does not need to move. He could stand in the center of their gale and emerge unharmed for he is _theirs_.

The wind slams into the third sleeper, throwing it against the cavern wall. It hisses and snarls as it gets back to its feet. In this form, it seems a bug, an insect, so easy to destroy. They know better. The other Cabeswater, the one whose name is not Cabeswater but something infinitely different and yet the same, whispers its secrets, tells them this thing cannot be destroyed, only returned to slumber. This is the other Cabeswater's perpetual struggle.

They will return it to sleep.

They bury it in rock, call upon the dirt and the muck at its feet, and subsume it in earth until its human form gasps and chokes. It fights against them, struggling to remain awake. It wants to leave this cave and unleash its horrors on the upper world.

They will not let it.

They pile more earth upon it. They bring roots and vines down from above to create an impenetrable wall that will keep oxygen from getting through. Humans are so dependent on oxygen. Without it, they will soon expire.

The human form gasps and goes dormant. They rip the third sleeper from it. When their forms are separate, they take it in their arms, this small, beetle-like thing, and they separate the wall. They create a room and a coffin from rock, infuse it with power, and place the sleeper inside. It thrashes and chirrs its defiance but it is nothing against them and they have no difficulty sealing it inside.

It screams and pounds on the coffin. Without its human form, it is weak and impotent. It cannot escape.

They leave no door. No matter how it carries on, no human will again be able to wake it.

They have taxed their human form too much. It demands control. Their Greywaren will be unhappy if they do not cede control.

They pull away from their human form and follow the wind out of the cave. The other Cabeswater whispers its thanks as they go.

Adam leans over and takes in a heavy breath as Cabeswater recedes. He looks up, straight into Henry Cheng's eyes. They are wide and afraid. The Adam he sees before him is a terrifying, unknowable creature. Henry Cheng is a fragile human being.

Adam does not care what Henry Cheng thinks. He never has.

Why should a forest care what humans see when they gaze upon it?

 

* * *

 

 

Henry Cheng has enough presence of mind to know when he's in over his head.

His mind keeps racing, trying and failing to find reasonable explanations for what's happening around him. The easiest explanation- magic, incredible, impossible, occult  _magic_ \- keeps flitting up, demanding attention. Henry has gotten himself mixed up in things that don't have reasonable explanations.

Such as Parrish, who, hell, Henry doesn't have words for what he just did. Except he thinks he does. Possessed. Whatever just looked at him from Parrish's eyes was not an eighteen-year-old hick. It was something greater and old as time itself.

Gansey grasps Henry's arm and shakes it. 

"This would be a good time for you to leave," he tells Henry, who nods dumbly. He has a word for that, too. Shock.

He turns back to tell Dick what he just remembered, something Skovron said that now seems less like nonsense and more like prophecy, but when he does, Gansey and Parrish have vanished.

 _Come closer_ , a voice whispers in his mind. It sounds like Henry's father but that is preposterous.

Henry can see Liuwei and his friends. They're still behind the rock slab. They must have hid while Parrish did...whatever he did. Henry goes to them now, his legs moving of their own accord.

_Let me out and I will give him to you, this Liuwei._

Henry shakes his head. What an odd thought. The oxygen levels must be low down here. He must be getting dizzy if he's hearing things.

Why would his father be offering to _give_ him Liuwei? That doesn't make any sense.

Except Henry just saw a possessed Parrish rip a glistening pill bug the size of a small dog from a monster's torso and shove it through a rock wall.

_Free me and I will give him to you and a favor besides. Surely, you must want that._

The voice sounds like his father but the words are all wrong. Someone, some _thing_ is mimicking his father's voice. Henry grits his teeth and keeps walking. He will not listen to voices whispering to him in caves. He is made of sterner stuff.

That is how the fairytales go, after all. Tempt the hero with the thing he wants more than anything in the world. If he falls prey to the demon's words, his end is nigh.

This is the twenty-first century. You can't give a person. Henry clings to that thought, his saving grace. He keeps going, every step more difficult as the voice keeps whispering, saying _yes, yes, you_ can _give a person. I can make Liuwei yours if you only come closer. Free me and I will hand him to you._

Henry closes his ears to the voice. He shuts down the part of his mind that wants to pay heed to those words and concentrates on anything else.

Like Liuwei.

Henry has never fully understood him. He thinks he's starting to now. Two years ago, when Liuwei left, Henry blamed himself. His advances were too strong. His interest was too obvious. If he had just realized he was sending out signals Liuwei didn't want to receive, he could have kept him as a friend.

Then the rumors started coming in. Liuwei, someone said, was seen kissing Danylo Prokopenko at a house party. Liuwei had hooked up with him. He had been with Kavinsky and Dvorak, too. Liuwei was not at all straight.

He just didn't want Henry.

That was a pain Henry was prepared to take. He just wished Liuwei would say it to his face. He wanted the chance to accept the rejection and move on, salvage what was left of their friendship.

Bring Liuwei back.

Kavinsky could not be good for him. Kavinsky was the type to use people and throw them away. He was cruel and mean. He didn't care if people got hurt. Daddy issues, Henry was sure, only made worse with the addition of drugs, violence, and hotheaded followers. There might as well have been a billboard above his head spelling imminent disaster in neon letters.

No matter what Henry did, no matter how much taunting he put up with from Kavinsky and Prokopenko (and, oh, Henry could have just killed them for turning Liuwei into a toy like that), Liuwei never showed any sign of wanting to come back.

He showed signs of other things, though.

There were times when Henry would pass him in the halls and he'd tell himself don't look, don't make Liuwei any more uncomfortable than he already is, and yet it'd be Liuwei's gaze he felt on him. Henry would be out on the quad and there would be Liuwei smoking a cigarette, studying him. Liuwei would slink in late to class and his eyes would flick to Henry's desk before he settled into his seat.

Liuwei was watching him, and that didn't make sense for someone who wanted to cut ties.

_I could give him to you._

"Shut up!" Henry snaps. He should be getting closer to the others. Every step feels like it's taking an eternity. "I won't listen to your false promises." 

Henry watched him in return. From a distance, he noticed things he wouldn't have otherwise. Sickness preyed on Liuwei. It only got worse after junior year but Henry, once he started looking, could see it had always been there. Back when they first met, Henry saw how tired Liuwei was. He thought it was from studying too much. He wanted to shake Liuwei, tell him _this isn't good for you, you need to sleep_ , and now, now he can see it wasn't a lack of sleep that was the issue.

Once Henry started paying attention, there was no hiding how sickly Liuwei was, how the days he looked healthy didn't outnumber the ones he didn't. He spent his nights drugged out of his mind, barreling down Henrietta's streets in his frankly gorgeous Supra and partying it up with every druggie that hick town had to offer. All the while pale and sweating, looking tired as hell, so much so that Henry wanted to grab him, shake him, tell him to _get some help, you're killing yourself._  

Mostly, he wanted to tuck his ex-friend into bed and take care of him and kind of, sort of fuck him if Liuwei wanted to.

Now Henry's head is spinning because reasonable explanations aren't the only ones on the table. Liuwei didn't simply leave: he chose _Kavinsky_.

Kavinsky who was known for his forgeries. Kavinsky who somehow turned up with an identical Mitsubishi the day after he set his on fire. Kavinsky who dealt drugs no one had ever heard of. Kavinsky who died under mysterious circumstances officially billed as a fatal fireworks accident.

_Come closer._

Henry walks farther away.

Andy says he saw a dragon and a black ink monster battling it out across the sky that night. He says Gansey and Lynch were there. He says Prokopenko kept his foot on the gas until he crashed into a wall.

There are no reasonable explanations for any of that. Just like there's no reasonable explanation for a woman turning into an insect and no reasonable explanation for a Welsh king being in a Virginian cave.

Henry is almost embarrassed at how oblivious he has been.

_Come closer. I can give you everything you've ever wanted._

"No," Henry says. Time is speeding up again. His steps have become easier, almost normal. The voice's power over him is fading. "I won't listen to you."

Liuwei is not a thing to be given. He is not a prize. He is a person.

The voice doesn't speak to Henry again.

 

* * *

 

 

Cheng crouches down beside Jiang. Jiang glances up at him, then across the suddenly quiet room. 

Piper lies limp yards from them on the cavern floor. Her hair has returned, lustrous and blonde. Jiang isn't positive she's alive. He doesn't see Dick Gansey, Parrish, Lynch, or the girl. The other woman is gone as well.

"You were telling the truth," Cheng says. He's so close Jiang can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Magic is real. Swan can actually see the future, can't he?"

"Uh...yeah. Something like that," Jiang says, distracted. "I thought you were going to save Gansey?"

"He told me to get out of there. It's too dangerous for a normal person. Parrish was making things move. Tree roots." Fear flashes across Cheng's handsome face. "I knew it. I  _knew_  there was something weird about Parrish."

"Would you shut up?" Jiang hisses. Of course, there's something weird about Parrish. Just like there's something weird about Lynch and something fucking strange about that yuan gui they call a roommate.

"You knew about this," Cheng accuses.

Jiang looks at him. Did that need saying?

“Are you one of them? Magical?” Cheng asks and there's hope in his voice.  _Is this it? Is this why?_  

“No,” Jiang answers honestly. God, he wishes things were so simple. “I’m like you. Now shut up.” 

"We tried to tell you," Swan says. He coughs. Jiang expects blood to come out but this isn't a movie and it doesn't.

"What happened to him?" Cheng asks in alarm. He must have just noticed who Skov and Jiang were hovering over. Skov's trying to staunch the bleeding and Jiang's- Jiang's not doing shit.

"He got shot," Jiang says, sitting back on his thighs. He grinds his palms into his pants legs. He doesn't know what to do. He's never learned First Aid, doesn't even know if they teach you how to deal with gunshot wounds there.

"Maleek," Skov says and Jiang wants to throw up, his voice sounds so wrecked, "stay with me."

 

* * *

 

 

"Come on, Maleek, you've got to keep your eyes open."

Swan smiles weakly. He's pale, his normally dark skin gray.

"I didn't think you knew my first name," he says.

"Of course, I do," Skov replies. There's a streak of blood on his chin. He can feel it cooling as the air touches it. "I know everything about you."

Swan breathes, shallow and pained.

"Shh, shh," Skov says, stroking his shoulder. "It's going to be fine."

“You always said you wanted to kill me,” Swan says. The smile's slipping.

“No,” Skov says and, even to him, it sounds like his voice is breaking. He presses his hoodie against the wound. It's already deep red and the bleeding shows no sign of stopping. “I never said that. I’ve killed you, yeah, but I never wanted to. This timeline was supposed to be different. I don’t want to- I  _can’t_. Not this time.”

“You and your timelines.” Swan’s voice is fond. It's wrong. Everything's all wrong.

“Shh,” Skov says, stroking Swan’s cheek with his thumb. “I’m going to get you out of here. You’re going to be okay.”

“You’ve,” Swan gasps, his breaths coming fast and unsteady, “killed me a hundred times already.” 

 _What's one more?_ his brown eyes plead.

Skov's never pushed the issue because it's never mattered before. Swan's only tried once. It was dramatic and there was a fiery wreck but he survived. And, oh God, Skov's been watching Swan, keeping him from dipping too low, because what's a fantasy for him is hell on Earth for Skov.

“Yeah, I have,” Skov says quietly, fiercely. “And you know what happens? I wake up and I’m back here. You hear that, Maleek? You die and I come home. To you.”

"You'll see me again."

Skov shakes his head fiercely. "No, no, I won't. It'll be a version of you, but it won't be  _you_. And then I'm going to come back and you won't be here. You're going to live, Maleek. I'm going to get you out of here."

“But-”

“Shh, that’s not gonna happen today.”

He loops Swan's arm around his shoulders. It's a struggle but he manages to get him off the ground. As much as Swan can manage, that's how far they'll walk. Skov will carry him if he has to, if the way allows for it. They'll figure this out. They have to.

“Fucking,” Swan gasps, “Lynch. You sure I can’t touch him?”

Skov touches Swan’s lips. Swan's breathing is thready and only getting weaker.

“I’m sure,” Skov says and it’s not his voice, it’s his soul that’s breaking.

 

* * *

 

 

They don't know where they're going. They also don't have a choice. Swan's not going to make it if they don't find a way out soon.

All Jiang can hear is Swan's shallow breathing. It's guttering in and out, a lighter's flame under heavy wind. Jiang's teeth are trying to cement themselves together.

The path is too narrow to carry Swan. He's had to walk, labored and slow, with one hand pressing Skov's hoodie to his side. Cheng produced a length of parachute cord from his drawstring backpack and jury-rigged a compress by wrapping it around Swan's waist over the fabric. It's working. Somewhat. Jiang tries not to look at the blood trickling down Swan's leg.

Skov's helping as much as he can. He's guiding Swan, holding on to him, keeping him from stumbling too much.

Jiang's just trying to pick his way through.

If they're going the way they came, they still have a half hour before they can hope to see daylight. Then it's getting Swan into the car and to the hospital. Where is the nearest hospital? Ten miles away, twenty? Fifty?

They're not going to make it.

“Hi,” a small voice says.

Jiang jerks back, hitting Cheng in the chest. He makes a quiet "oof" sound and grabs Jiang by the hips.

"Did you hear that?" Jiang whispers. Cheng nods.

"Um," the voice says.

“You,” Swan says, pointing a shaky finger at a pale, smudgy boy standing to the side of the path. He’s wearing an Aglionby uniform. It doesn’t belong in a cave, too thin to keep out the cold. The boy doesn’t seem to mind.

The dead, after all, don't feel the cold.

“Me,” the yuan gui answers.

“I," Swan says, gasping between his words, "remember you. You’re that kid, the one Whelk killed.”

The yuan gui nods. For a moment, his eyes are nothing but dark holes.

“What's going on? Who's speaking?” Cheng asks, loud and insistent.

“The yuan gui,” Jiang hisses to him. “He’s- oh, fuck, I don’t have time to explain.”

“Skateboard,” Swan says. The yuan gui flinches. Swan taps the side of his own face. “Right here. Felt it the day I arrived.”

“Some welcome present.”

Swan cracks a smile. “I’ve had worse.”

Skov’s looking at the yuan gui. It’s not clear whether he recognizes him. Maybe there is no timeline where they’ve met before.

“Do you know a way out?”

“Yes.” The yuan gui's voice is toneless. Jiang imagines there’s a petulance there.

“Gansey's bleeding out, isn’t he?” Swan asks, sounding distant, almost delirious. The red patch is spreading. Soon, Skov will be covered in it. “I am, too.”

Skov shushes him. He tells Swan to save his strength. It’s uncharacteristically kind. Or maybe it’s not. What does Jiang know?

Cheng's still holding onto Jiang's hips. Jiang quietly extricates himself.

“You’ll live,” the yuan gui says. “If you get out of here in time.”

The threat could not be more obvious.

“What do you want from us?” Jiang asks.

“A promise. To be fulfilled after I lead you out.” The yuan gui's fading, disappearing. Soon he’ll go on to his second, permanent death. Jiang can imagine what he’ll ask for.

“Alright,” he agrees. 

Cheng’s fists clench. He looks from Jiang to Swan, then nods.

“Whatever,” Skov says. “Just get us out of here.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jiang's headlight shines off the rock walls and through the yuan gui. His form shifts and flickers. At times, it's that of a teenage boy; at times, a grinning skeleton.

"How much longer?" Cheng asks.

The yuan gui turns his empty eye sockets on him. Cheng's not looking anywhere near where he's standing. Cheng, Jiang realizes, can't see him.

"Time doesn't matter here," the yuan gui says. "We'll get out."

They continue on.

The cave walls sparkle with white crystals. Water trickles from the ceiling, feeding the dark pools limning their path.

The yuan gui flits between a rock cleft. Jiang follows and enters a room full of darkness. There's light behind him, the sound of Skov and Cheng helping Swan through, and Skov murmuring encouragement. Ahead is nothing.

Something touches Jiang's shoulder and all the heat remaining in his body seeps out. Jiang gasps soundlessly, the breath stolen from his chest as surely as the heat.

"Sorry," the yuan gui says, appearing a second later. "I'm not what I used to be."

"It's fine," Jiang chatters. It's not. He's going hypothermic over here.

He fishes a HotHands out of pocket. He tears it open with numb fingers and shakes it, willing it to heat up quickly.

"It's not much farther," the yuan gui says. Jiang shoves his hands in his armpits and shivers. "I wouldn't have done it if I didn't need to."

"I said it was fine."

Swan's face has taken on a gray pallor. Jiang can take a little cold.

The yuan gui glides to the right of a crystal pool and adjoining column. They follow.

Jiang's body warms slowly. His teeth chatter. He can't feel his toes.

Worse, he can't hear Swan.

Swan's still moving but his breathing's shallower than ever. There are deep lines under his eyes and he's dragging his feet. There's red smeared across Skov's shirt. The hoodie is drenched.

The cold doesn't seem so important anymore.

"A little further," the yuan gui says, his voice a whisper in Jiang's ear.

They take a turn and Jiang can feel warmth. He can see light.

There, up a twenty foot fall of boulders, is an opening.


	25. Chapter 25

"There," Neeve hisses, jutting her chin at a calcite-streaked wall. She clutches her swollen wrist as well as she can with both hands tied behind her back. The echo of the sharp break still rings in Adam's good ear, only now it's being drowned out by a chorus of resplendent Latin.  _Rex Corvus, parate Regis Corvi._  "Your sleeping king is behind that door."

Three years of searching culminated in this one moment. Glendower beckons.

And Gansey isn't here to see it.

He's in Ronan's arms. How fragile the human body is. One moment vibrant and alive, the next nothing but an empty husk.

Distantly, Adam hears the sound of crying. It isn't him but he has a feeling if he touches his cheeks, he will find them wet.

_Fortunate is the soul who finds the king and is brave enough to call him to wakefulness, for the king will grant him a favor, as wondrous as can be imagined by mortal man._

Three years they've been searching.

Glendower  _will_  grant them their favor.

Adam touches the raven insignia etched into the cold rock. He pushes it.

The door to Glendower's chamber opens and Adam is awash in golden light.


	26. Chapter 26

Swan drifts in and out of consciousness. At one point, there's an ambulance and Skov at his side. At another, he's on a gurney being wheeled into surgery.

Mostly he's exhausted, waking up only to fall asleep once more.

 

* * *

 

Swan hears voices. They're quiet and just a little bit off. Spanish but that's not what's bothering him.

These people, his mind is telling him, belong to parts of his life he's long kept separate.

He opens his eyes to find his mother and Skov discussing remodeling plans for her new home. Jiang's curled up in a chair asleep, a soft whistling sound coming from his nose.

Swan's mother cries out when she sees he's awake. She throws her arms around him and hugs him hard.

"Is Jeffrey here?" he asks her, breathing in her heady perfume.

Her reply is unfortunately in the affirmative.

"Your Spanish needs work," Swan tells Skov when he leans over to kiss his cheek.

"Does it?" Skov asks and his smile isn't quite right. Swan squeezes his arm.

"So get this," Skov says in English. The tightness around his eyes belies the quirk of his lips. "Today is Jiang's birthday."

"What," Swan deadpans.

"Yeah. We lost a week in there somewhere."

Swan looks at Jiang, who's still dozing.

"Fuck."

His mother scolds him for his language. Skov laughs. Then she scolds him for never telling her about Jiang and Skov laughs even harder.

When a doctor pulls Swan's mother aside, Skov tells him what he and Jiang have figured out so far.

The valley's in an uproar.

A week ago, the first Saturday in March, eight teenagers vanished. It was too early for an impromptu spring break and too many kids missing to be a coincidence.

The first clue was a worried roommate. Skylar didn't know where Jiang went, just that his friends came in a rush and swept him away.

The second was the police finding Dick Gansey's Camaro and Skov's RX-7 parked next to each other on a farm at the base of Coopers Mountain. Miles from Henrietta. Outside the house where a man was recently murdered. The intriguing part, the part that made people want to sit around and chew the fat, was that everyone asked agreed: those two had never had anything to do with one another.

When Henry Cheng didn't catch his flight home, his parents promptly freaked the fuck out. They threatened to sue the school and the county if something wasn't done to find him. They pointed to their son's last Facebook post with its vague message and implications of involvement with Gansey and Parrish.

Then Brian Cheng came forward and said he saw Gansey and Henry talking the night before they disappeared.

(Although Skov doesn't know it, when asked, Andy Ma said the same thing. Then he moved to say something else, mispronounced Cheng's name, and shook his head. He had no idea why those other students, Skov, Swan, and that other one, would have gone with Gansey.

But he agreed: they must have gone with Gansey.

And everyone knows Gansey's been looking for that king of his.)

Then yesterday, after being gone for a week, all eight of them turned up in Henrietta's woods, outside entrances to a cave system no one has ever heard of.

"It's a hell of a setup," Skov says, grinning. "How much crazy shit you think people are gonna start spitting?"

Swan laughs. It feels like burning resentment. "Tons."

"I'm hungry," Swan says to Skov because Jiang's woken up and he's giving them a funny look. "Get me something to eat that's not hospital food, yeah?"

"What is it?" he asks Jiang once Skov's left. "Didn't want to spend your birthday without us?"

Jiang shakes his head. "Can't fucking believe we spent a week down there." He glances at the door. "He was really worried about you. They wouldn't let us see you because we weren't family and just, shit, man, I thought Skov was going to-" He shakes his head again. 

 _You should have seen him in October and last January and the November before that,_  Swan thinks but doesn't say because even he knows this time wasn't like the others, this time was worse than any that came before.

"You feeling any better?" Jiang asks.

"My side hurts like a bitch. Nothing else, though."

"That's good. Hey, you mind if we turn on the TV? It's boring as shit in here."

Jiang takes Skov's chair and they sit and watch a cooking show because at this time of day it's that or a soap opera. Jiang lets Swan play with his hair with its stupidly complicated style that looks good even when he forgets to brush it. He leans into Swan's hand and this is not something they've ever done before but it feels good now.

When Skov comes back, he helps Swan sit up and the three of them eat, Swan leaning against Skov's chest and Jiang's head resting against Swan's thigh. It's new and weird and at the same time it feels like something Swan could have always had if he just reached out and asked.

He hounds Jiang into eating enough and he lets Skov coddle him, because that's what they find comforting, the weirdos. Swan can feel the strain easing on both of them. He stays awake as long as he can. He's still so tired, though, and Skov's warm and Jiang's whistling breath is rhythmic, and he ends up falling asleep right there.

 

* * *

 

Jiang doesn't think he's been this stressed in ages.

He's had to help talk Skov through two panic attacks in the last few days, something that's apparently normally Swan's job (and thanks for keeping that under wraps, guys, totally awesome information to find out while Skov's hyperventilating and Swan's being wheeled into surgery), he's had to watch Swan nearly _die_ , and he's had to deal with the very real fact that half the town of Henrietta suspects he, Swan, and Skov tried to do Dick Gansey in.

Because Gansey's not okay. He got stabbed, just like Swan said he would.

Jiang wonders morbidly if the next time he dies, he's going to stay dead.

Swan recovers. Skov hovers to the point it's a miracle Swan hasn't snapped his neck. He spends every minute he can with Swan. Of course, Jiang does, too.

Swan is- Jiang doesn't know what Swan is to him. A friend, maybe. Someone who’s there when things get rough.

So Jiang stays. He spends his birthday in the hospital because the people he would be celebrating it with are here and Swan's health is far more important than pretending another year of Jiang's life is a cause for celebration. His mother's gotten a call from the school now and it took her by surprise, that voicemail. She hadn't even known Jiang had been missing.

Jiang did smile when he heard that, imagining the tongue-lashing she gave the school. She might be nothing in the face of Mrs. Ding, but his mother's always had his back everywhere else.

Reassuring her that he was fine hadn't been so easy, not when the school had already told her two other students had been seriously injured. But he hadn't been hurt, Jiang could tell her truthfully, and Swan was getting better. He didn't know about that other boy.

It's not like Jiang's gone to visit him. If Gansey's on the mend, he'll hear about it eventually. Jiang's not going to satisfy his curiosity if there's the possibility he could run into Cheng.

Jiang can't get the sense-memory of Cheng's hands on his hips out of his head. He can't stop remembering Cheng making sure the EMTs looked Jiang over and verified none of the blood on him was his. He can't forget Cheng telling Skov to breathe and count to five, _that's good, one more time, Swan's going to make it, the doctors know what they're doing._

Hence Jiang wandering around the hospital, visiting Swan when he can but giving him and Skov space when they need it. He talks to Swan's mother, who is as beautiful as Jiang always suspected and far less standoffish than her son. He finds out real fucking quickly that Swan's stepfather is a tool and he promptly writes the man off when he finds out the only person who likes him less than Swan is Skov.

Skov's parents also show up at the hospital and Swan is a big, fucking liar because there's no way the two of them aren't dating when Skov's mother fusses over Swan and his father fluffs his pillows for him. They're convinced Swan's injuries are from a round of gay-bashing or a race-motivated hate crime Swan doesn't want to draw attention to. Skov's mother is pissed. She wants to take the Henrietta police to task for letting this happen and Skov's father has to calm her down when she starts going off on minority rights and race relations in the U.S. 

Nobody notices Jiang pretending to sleep in the corner and he's enjoying himself too much to mind.

 

* * *

 

The yuan gui shows up the third day. 

Swan’s not that hurt, just the wounds, the lacerated kidney, and the blood loss. He probably could have gone home the day after he arrived, but they found bruises on him and, because he’s a minor, the doctors have to get CPS involved. That's what's really taking time. They’re dragging their feet, possibly because Swan's Aglionby, possibly because he’s black. In this town, both are damning.

“I heard Gansey got admitted,” Jiang says when the yuan gui settles into a plastic waiting room chair next to him. Swan’s visiting hours aren’t over but Swan’s being a dick, so Jiang’s sitting out here. He could go back to the dorms but, again, avoiding Cheng.

“He did.”

“Is he alright?”

“He will be.”

Jiang doesn’t know what to say to that so he doesn’t say anything.

“My name’s Noah,” the boy says, unprompted. “Not guan yin or whatever you call me.”

“Yuan gui,” Jiang corrects, biting back a laugh. “It’s a type of ghost.”

“Oh.”

They sit in silence for a while. It’s not uncomfortable, only cold.

“I’m going to go,” Noah mumbles and disappears. Just flickers out and vanishes. It reminds Jiang a little of Skov. In a good way.

Jiang’s phone buzzes but it’s only a notification coming in, nothing he can distract himself with. He considers playing a game and decides against it. There’s something horribly comfortable about sitting in this too bright room with nothing to do but watch the receptionists and nurses at work. It’s like he’s in another world, one where none of his real problems exist.

He runs a thumb over the edge of his phone. He should have done this days ago.

 _Thank you_ , Jiang texts Morris because Swan’s lying in a hospital bed right now and not a morgue.

 _Rasmussen_ , is the answer he gets.

 _Thank Rasmussen_ comes five seconds later. _I didn't do shit._

Jiang doesn’t have Rasmussen's new number so he lets his screen go dim.

Five minutes later, his phone goes off. It's Morris again. The message is a phone number with an unfamiliar area code and the words _call him. He likes you._

Before Jiang has a chance to, Lynch enters the waiting room.

Ronan Lynch has never learned to make a quiet entrance. Possibly, he's never needed to. Jiang's heard he used to be the favorite back when his dad was still alive. 

Jiang was never anyone's favorite.

(That's a lie, that's such a lie. Jiang can't admit the truth, even to himself. If he does he'll start thinking about how he's let the best thing in his life slip away time after time and how he'll keep doing it because his best thing can't possibly be Cheng's, too, for all he wants it to be.)

Lynch ended up broken anyway, just like the rest of them. Funny how that happens. 

He walks over to Jiang. It sets Jiang on edge. Lynch’s walk is too direct, a call to violence and attention.

Lynch takes Noah’s empty seat.

The silence is far less comfortable than it was when Jiang's companion was dead.

“Are you okay?” Lynch asks. It sounds ridiculous, this concern coming from his mouth. The last time they really talked, Lynch was handing him the keys to a Lancer Evo that shouldn’t have been able to exist.

Jiang laughs. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Jiang never looks fine. He’s perpetually exhausted, always in pain, gets chills at the slightest thing. He only feels okay when he’s on something, be it caffeine or nicotine or cocaine. He’s seen two people die horrible deaths in the last year. Three days ago, one of his few remaining friends (friend? Yeah, Swan's definitely his friend) was shot in a cave by an insect-woman hybrid. He’s not okay. He's never been.

“You don’t need to look out for me,” he tells Lynch. “This might sound stupid but, since about this time last year, we thought we were looking out for _you_.”

Lynch raises an eyebrow. He is exceedingly handsome.

Jiang’s eyelids feel heavy.

“I never said we did a good job.”

“Did.” Lynch licks his lips. “Did he ask you to do that?”

“No.” Lynch must still think of Kavinsky fondly. It’s one of those messed up things about relationships once they’re over: you never remember the full truth. “He didn’t care about that kind of thing. Death, not-” Jiang makes an ambiguous gesture with his right hand. “You.”

Lynch looks honest-to-God confused. There's closeted and then there's _closeted_.

"You didn't kill him," he tells Lynch. "That shit, that's not on you. It was going to happen whether you were part of the equation or not."

Jiang doesn't know whether he's telling the truth. He's kind of afraid he isn't and that Lynch was responsible, just a fraction of a bit.

Proko, Jiang remembers, was worried.

Proko, who knew K better than all of them, was bothered by K's fixation on Lynch.

They hadn't listened.

Proko told Jiang secrets. When they were alone, he poured out the darkness in K's heart, all the horrible, terrible things he was capable of in thought and deed.

It was only the second Proko who did it. Maybe it was part of his manufacture, that honesty. Or maybe it was the old Proko bleeding through, finally able to reach out to someone with all the things he suspected and feared. Proko was K's man in all things. He knew the monster that dwelt inside.

He had warned them and they hadn't listened. They'd learned on their own but by then it was too late.

“Will Swan be alright?” Lynch asks.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, he’s fine. They’re just keeping him for observation or some shit.”

There’s not really a way to tell the doctors Swan’s injuries aren’t a sign of any abuse Swan doesn’t want. Swan’s got issues but that? That’s not one of them. The fact that Swan’s had his stomach pumped twice in this hospital is more worrying than him letting Skov lay hands on him. It’s not something Jiang’s ever felt like wasting brain cells on (except for the fear that Swan likes it a little too much, is a little too reckless, would let Skov do too much, would maybe even _make_ Skov go too far because who ever said Skov was the one in control? When it comes to Swan, Skov would do anything).

“Will Gansey?” Three days and however many hours ago, Swan said he was bleeding out, though Jiang isn’t about to tell Lynch that.

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s going to be okay.” Lynch sounds a lot more torn up about this than Jiang is about Swan but then Dick Gansey didn’t nearly die five months ago in a horrific crash he refuses to talk about. Dick Gansey doesn't let the guy he’s fucking talk about murdering him all the time. Dick Gansey is normal and healthy, and not at all self-loathing, so the thought of him dying probably has a bit more significance.

Or maybe Jiang isn't admitting how he really feels because his heart's being torn ten different ways and he never admitted how much last summer broke him, how much harder this summer is going to be.

After a few minutes of gaping silence, Lynch gets up and walks away. Jiang isn’t offended.

He scrolls through his phone, then puts it away when Facebook and Instagram have nothing to offer. He leans his head back against the white, antiseptic walls of the waiting room and stares up at the fluorescent lights. He wishes this were a different hospital.

He misses Proko. It’s a strange, sharp ache that flares up after weeks of not thinking about him.

Jiang thinks about Kavinsky all the time. K’s been dead for nearly a year and he still touches everything Jiang does. But Proko- everyone’s been so quick to forget about him. Not even Skov or Swan want to talk about him because he’s not the Proko they knew, the one who was born from a human mother and not Kavinsky’s mind. All the other impossible things Kavinsky made were easy to accept, except Proko, apparently.

“You’re good at remembering people,” the yuan gui- Noah- had said when he called in his favor. “I want you to remember me when I’m gone. I want you to remember who I was and what happened to me.”

Was this what he meant? Remember him like Jiang remembered Proko? Noah had friends. They’d dug his bones up and reburied them, Skov said. But friends didn’t mean they’d remember the person he had been, the people he was.

Yeah, he was talking about Proko.

Jiang wishes he’d asked Kavinsky where the first Proko was buried, if he was buried at all. Swan would have liked to know. Skov, too. It’d be nice to be able to pay their respects. Jiang had cared about both Prokos, the wilder, more vitriolic first and the sweeter, stabler second. The differences hadn’t been strong and they hadn’t mattered. Quietly, Jiang had thought being remade wouldn’t be so bad if it meant the bad parts got stripped away in the process.

Swan had never agreed on that part. He never accepted what Kavinsky had done.

Jiang will have to ask Swan who Noah was. He recognized him in the cave in a way that spoke of long familiarity, like Swan had been holding on to a memory of violence for a while. Things like that don't get written up in the papers.

For now, Jiang opens the web browser on his phone and types in the words "Noah Czerny" and "Aglionby".

 


	27. Chapter 27

Rasmussen is leaving the shooting range when he gets the call. He stares at the number on his screen, recognizing it and yet utterly surprised it's there. He hasn't talked to Jiang in almost a year, not since he got his acceptance letter to Duke and started getting his shit together.

"Hello?" he asks in case it's a mistake.

"Hi," Jiang says and it's so good to hear his voice.

“Liuwei Jiang. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Morris,” Jiang answers tersely. “He said I owed you thanks.”

That doesn’t sound like Morris. At the same time, it does. Morris is a strange fellow.

“He’s not wrong.”

Rasmussen's lips quirk not at Jiang's words but at the way he says them. If there’s one thing Rasmussen misses, it’s their voices. K’s Jersey sleaze, Swan’s long vowels, Skov’s almost redneck twang, Jiang’s over-strong r’s, Proko’s occasional intrusive y's. Dvorak’s West Coast breeze.

Rasmussen runs a hand over his slicked back hair and angles the phone away from his face so Jiang can’t hear him exhale.

“Is that all you called for?” he asks.

He can hear Jiang’s breathing on the other line. There’s the same breathy catch Rasmussen remembers. Jiang tries so hard to conceal how messed up his body is, yet he never quite succeeds.

Rasmussen waits for Jiang to continue.

Calling him must have been a struggle for Jiang. It’s not that Jiang doesn’t like Rasmussen. Jiang thinks Rasmussen doesn’t like  _him_. Jiang's thoroughly convinced all but, like, three people hate his guts.

One, now.

“Swan’s going to be okay,” Jiang says. “Skov was a little freaked out and there was a lot of, uh, blood but he’s going to pull through.”

“That’s good.”

That’s good. Who is Rasmussen trying to fool?  _That’s good_  is what you say when you’re waiting for the other person to end the conversation.

“Swan’s really okay, though?” Rasmussen asks. He tugs on the gauge in his left ear. He just went up a size and they itch from stretching.

“He got shot,” Jiang says flatly. “The bullet hit his kidney. He’ll scar but he’ll be fine.”

 _Will you be?_  Rasmussen wants to ask.  _If I thought you’d pick up, I would have called you every day. I know what they were to you._

“Everyone needs a badass scar to brag about.”

That earns him a huff. It’s almost a laugh.

There's a faint, metallic sound. It's Jiang, clicking his tongue ring against his front teeth. Rasmussen can imagine the look of consternation on his face.

“I didn’t think you cared,” Jiang admits. “We’re here and you’re there. It’s high school, man. You’re supposed to do your time and leave that shit behind.”

“You’re probably right," Rasmussen agrees. "But maybe I didn’t want to let you guys go.”

“You didn’t seem to care when Dvorak left.”

There isn’t a good answer to that. Not an honest one, at least.

If this were Morris Rasmussen were talking to, this would be a lead in to a verbal parry. (Do you know where he is? Do you know what happened?) (We both do.) Jiang doesn’t suspect anything. In his mind, Dvorak left. Unless Rasmussen gives him a reason to, Jiang won’t look deeper.

Rasmussen isn't special. He's a regular person, no fancy magic powers. Still, he figured it out first, Swan's limitations.

It was so simple and it needed to be done.

Dvorak hurt Jiang. Dvorak hurt a lot of people.

 

* * *

 

Rasmussen has been told his whole life he has to be perfect. Every time he takes a shortcut, every time he doesn't follow the rules to the letter, people will remember his aunt and they will never trust Rasmussen again. Mistakes are not something he is allowed to make.

It's a lot of pressure. His family's left Denmark. They don't need to be so cautious. But they are and they expect Rasmussen to be better.

He wants those shortcuts more than he wants success. His grades don't matter, no one in his family was ever that scholastic. He's been kept from competition even though he has the marksmanship of a sharpshooter (as he should- how many years of training did he have, how many long hours has he been told to throw away because of someone else's stupidity?). When he lived in Henrietta, he drove to Masanutten on the weekends, got on the slopes. He was so good and no one will ever know. He hiked the AT all summer long until he stopped seeing the natural beauty and started seeing it as the same trail over and over again.

It's not the exercise he needs.

Rasmussen  _belongs_  in sports. He needs discipline, a coach, medals. He craves recognition. But because his aunt screwed up one time on the world's biggest stage, he can't have it.

You won't let Rasmussen win by playing, he'll find his own stage. You won't let him compete, he'll win his own medals.

Dvorak becomes his gold.

Dvorak is his obsession, the worst and best person Rasmussen has ever met.

They get along smashingly at first. They have so much in common, the same interests, the same sense of humor. It's a friendship for the ages.

Not two months after meeting Dvorak, Rasmussen starts fantasizing about killing him.

There's no reason why. It's just a desire. Rasmussen tells himself it's because Dvorak does terrible things. And he does. Dvorak is a predator of the worst kind because he's a known one and no one does anything about it.

Rasmussen sees it for himself when he goes looking for an empty bedroom at a party one night and finds Dvorak between an unconscious girl's bloody thighs.

From then on, he collects every story, every scrap of evidence that Dvorak deserves what Rasmussen's going to do to him. The volume of undeniable proof is staggering.

And then Dvorak goes after Jiang.

Jiang is special. He doesn't deserve Dvorak any less than the girls but the abuse leveled against him, the looks, the threat of violence are more urgent for Jiang's disability. It's an added level of cruelty and that's why Dvorak does it.

Rasmussen waits for someone to do something. Months pass and only Proko speaks out, only Skov watches Dvorak with an unhappy expression. Swan drinks and says nothing, Morris turns a blind eye, K's too twisted and high to care. Every day, Dvorak gets closer to turning words and looks into action and Rasmussen just knows no one is going to do anything.

Morris leaves the summer before Rasmussen's senior year and there's half of Rasmussen's barriers gone overnight.

His body shakes with the anticipation of what he will do. He quivers with the thought. Plans tumble through his head all day long, along with the heady knowledge that Morris isn't around to stop him. The only thing keeping Rasmussen back is Swan and his visions. 

Then Proko 2.0 comes to Henrietta and with him comes the realization that there is violence Swan doesn't know about. Rasmussen can do this. He just has to find a workaround.

A shortcut.

His gold medal.

Once Rasmussen figures out what Swan can't feel, he starts making real plans. Out of all of K's grims, he's the one who knows the woods. He hikes there, goes hunting with the local boys. He knows exactly where he can leave Dvorak's remains and have them never be found.

There is magic in Henrietta's woods and there is magic outside them, and there is death, glorious death everywhere.

 

* * *

 

In college, Rasmussen gets into local competitions. His family warns him, remember your aunt, no one will ever believe you did it on your own.

Rasmussen doesn't care. There are much bigger things in his closet now. If anything, look what he's managed to do after three years of coke and smoking and dreams.

The world will never know what he did. Rasmussen itches for recognition. He wants Morris to stand up and declaim him. He wants his name in large print on the front page of newspapers, another Aglionby student dead, another one a murderer.

But it isn't all excitement. Dvorak's taken care of but Jiang is still suffering.

Rasmussen's always felt for Jiang. He understands what it's like, having a disgrace in the family and a body that can't be used to its full potential.

When Rasmussen was eight years old, his mother turned on the TV and made him watch as his aunt, the pride of Aarhus, ISSF World Shooting Championships gold medalist and two time Danish Olympic team member, was stripped of her medal and titles. All the tests, coaches, and teammates said the same thing: she had been using banned substances for years, she had been warned, and, once again, she had been caught. This would be her third and last violation.

"From now on," Rasmussen's family told him as they packed his hard-earned medals and trophies away, "you cannot be the best. Every achievement you ever make, people will look at and assume you cheated. Even if you play by the very letter of the law, you will be asked to prove again and again that you deserve to stand on the podium."

The message was clear: it is better not to try at all than to live in shame's shadow.

For Rasmussen, there would be no more competitive sports. His rifles, his pistols, all the evidence that he was once an up-and-coming star in the world of competitive shooting could still be used but now he had to call it a hobby, an amusement for afternoons and the weekends.

It was his aunt's mistake but it is his burden to bear.

So, yes, Rasmussen understands Jiang, even if Jiang won't say who in his family did what. Someone did something and, whatever it is, it means a lot more in his home country than it does in this one.

 

* * *

 

Rasmussen keeps track of Swan, Jiang, and Skov after he graduates. He wasn't at the Fourth but he heard what happened. He's been to see Proko.

Secrets. That's all Henrietta was ever good for. Rasmussen got out. He's going to make sure the others do, too.

He stalks them on Facebook. He keeps tabs on Dick Gansey, Henry Cheng, Ronan Lynch. He calls and texts and bothers Skov and Morris until they include him back in their lives and tell him what he wants to know.

When they disappear, he calls Morris.

Morris, he says, my man, my buddy, tell me where, tell me when. I know you know.

Morris, he says, help me save them. Something bad's going down and you know what it is.

Morris, it's been five days.

Morris, it's been six.

Morris, if another one of our friends dies, it'll be on you.

Please, Morris. Help me help them.

Finally, after a week of being gone, a thousand texts and phone calls, and a reminder of one very drunken blowjob, Morris answers.

_Noon. March 12th. A cave in Henrietta's woods._

Rasmussen places an anonymous call to 911. "I've seen the missing students," he says, "in the trees outside of town. They look like they're in bad shape."

He's glad it worked.

Rasmussen's not trying to protect only Jiang. It's just Swan and Skov have each other. Jiang's the one everyone worried about.

Mostly everyone.

Rasmussen wants to sigh. Jiang has never understood that you're in for a penny, in for a pound with K. That doesn't stop just 'cause K is past tense. They protect their own. They protect them a lot.

Here's the thing: Jiang is a hot mess. He was Cheng's hot mess before he was K's and he'll probably be again, but he was never just a trophy. K didn't keep you for long if he didn't find you interesting. Jiang bested him their first race. He understood what distant fathers and neglectful mothers were like. He kept Proko happy when K's attention wandered. Most importantly, he made K feel like that much less of a disaster.

Jiang kept pace with a group full of supes, yet he never got around to thinking he was on their level. It's a damn shame and Rasmussen can't say he's done much to fix that impression. 

He's done more than some.

He and Dvorak went out into the woods, way out where no one would look. They smoked and they laughed, and they drank. Rasmussen pretended it was a normal night, just the two of them spending time together, alone. They did that sometimes. Rasmussen got Dvorak hopped up on angeldust and told him to fly. Dvorak flew all right. He flew until gravity caught up with him and left him in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a cliff.

Rasmussen waited until his labored breathing stopped, then fished Dvorak out and buried him feet up in a grave he dug himself.

Workarounds. Even if Rasmussen gets caught, all he's guilty of is neglect, accessory to murder if the prosecutor is good enough.

 _Did you find him yet?_ He wants to ask Jiang. _Has anyone even been looking?_

Rasmussen wants them to find Dvorak. Any excuse to go back to Henrietta.

It could bother him, what he's done, if Rasmussen weren’t a pro at redirecting disturbing thoughts.

He took Dvorak out. They were friends and Rasmussen offed him because he could, because Dvorak was long past acceptable behavior, because Rasmussen thought it'd be better at a brother’s hand than at K's and Proko's. He doesn't know why he thought that now. The end result is the same: no one's looking for James Dvorak.

There's only one person who knows and he's in Connecticut pretending Henrietta never happened. Rasmussen's not gonna get caught.

He kind of wants to get caught.

 

* * *

 

"You didn't seem to care when Dvorak left," Jiang says.

"Maybe not," Rasmussen replies. "But you, Swan, and Skov are my friends. I don't want to see you guys go down if I can help it."

"You say that like you can do anything to stop it."

"Well, I did, didn't I?"

Jiang clicks his tongue ring again. "Thank you," he says. "That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it?"

Naturally, Jiang would think so.

"Yeah," Rasmussen says. "That's what I wanted to hear. Take care of yourself, Jiang."

The reply Jiang gives is rote and insincere.

Of course, Jiang won't take care of himself. He's the sort most people give up on because he won't help himself and he won't ask for the help he needs. He's so frightened of rejection, so convinced his presence inspires hate, that he won't let anybody in.

All he has to do is trust somebody again.

Rasmussen is counting on Cheng being that person.


	28. Chapter 28

Gansey doesn't stay dead.

"This isn't his first time," Skov says tiredly. They've been kicked out of Swan's room by the nurses, not because visiting hours are over but because they need to actually tend to their patient and Skov and Jiang are apparently nuisances. "Not just-"

"I swear to God if you say in another timeline I will punch you in the dick." Jiang pushes a button on the vending machine and waits for his coffee. The caffeine's not going to be much help. Still, it's something to do.

Spring break has begun and ended. Jiang didn't have any plans. He still would have liked the week off. Now school's started back up and they are just about the most interesting things in it. Fuck Cancun and the Bahamas, Dick Gansey got  _stabbed_. Aglionby is abuzz with rumors of what happened, all of them completely wrong. Most involve Swan going nuts and attacking Gansey.

Very, very few people have heard the other piece of news, that Greenmantle's wife was found wandering Henrietta's woods half out of her mind, covered in dirt and leaves.

The police have kept things quiet per Gansey's request. Piper Greenmantle's husband is being linked to the unsolved murder of Lynch's father. The Greenmantles were acquaintances of Niall Lynch and rife with shady connections. The break-in at Dick Gansey's apartment, the attempt on Declan Lynch's life, the appearance of the Greenmantles in Henrietta, Ronan Lynch's suddenly slipping Latin grades, all are being connected to an effort to erase the Lynches from existence. Gansey and Swan, the police have been informed, were trying to stop Piper Greenmantle from getting to Niall Lynch's son.

It's a good story. Convincing. Largely true. Dick Gansey has a way of making people believe the things he says.

"Wasn't going to," Skov says. He needs sleep even more than Jiang does. There's tension in every line of his body. "You ever notice how fucked up he is? His heart stopped when he was nine or some shit. Had a whole near death experience."

Jiang squints at him, trying to decide if that's true or not. It could be. Weirder things have happened to Dick Gansey.

"Do you think he found that king of his?" he asks Skov as he takes a sip of his coffee. It's what Gansey was down there for in the first place.

"I doubt he'd still be kicking if he didn't."

"True." Jiang wonders if maybe they should have been looking for this king, if it would have changed things if they found him first. Probably not. "Hey, you think the nurses will let us back in now?"

 

* * *

 

Adam's realizing that he had Swan all wrong.

Swan doesn't think of him as an easy acquaintance. Swan thinks he's a pain in the ass. He respects Adam, is probably honestly glad Adam is out of his parents' house, but he doesn't  _like_  Adam.

And Adam's the idiot who brought him flowers.

They were costly but he figured it'd be rude to visit Gansey and ignore the guy who got shot fighting Piper Greenmantle. Adam's got manners.

He's regretting ever learning them.

Swan's scowling at him. Skov's here, which is an unexpected unpleasantness.

(Is it unexpected, though? When's the last time Adam saw these two apart? There's something here he's not seeing that he's not sure he wants to.)

"Can we help you, Parrish?" Skov asks in what can just barely be called a civil tone.

There’s a tennis match on the TV. Adam watches the match for a second, looking to make small talk about it. Unfortunately, he knows nothing about tennis.

"I thought I'd bring Swan flowers."

Swan looks fine, fully recovered even. Gansey looks like he's been to hell and back. Ronan's been alternately hovering and pacing furiously. Blue sits and looks stunned. Noah hasn't showed.

"You brought them. Did you need something else?"

"Yes," Adam decides. Ten minutes ago, when he was in the gift shop, he wouldn't have thought to ask. Now he will. "What were you doing in Jesse Dittley's cave?"

"Saving Cheng's ass," Swan replies. "You already know that."

Adam did. "How did you know we would be there? I was under the impression Cheng wasn't a friend of yours."

Skov laughs scathingly.

"He's not," Swan says.

"Why don't you ask what you really want to ask?" Skov says. Threatens, really. "How did we know Dicky was going to bite it if we weren't the ones who were going to do it?"

"I don't care about that," Adam says. "We've known since last April."

"Oho?" Skov asks like that's a thing people actually say. "The psychics tell you that?"

"Not quite." Adam can't believe he brought flowers. He always knew Skov was a dick. Turns out there's a reason he and Swan keep company.

He wants to say something succinct and cruel. Their leader is dead, their little band nearly destroyed. How much more can these losers fall? Swan was hurt helping Henry Cheng, of all people, and they're acting like Adam is the enemy.

"What did I ever do to you?" he asks. "What's your problem with me?"

"I don't have a problem with you," Swan says. "It's Lynch who can go to hell."

Skov's mirth fades. He notices Adam noticing.

“Bit of free advice, Parrish,” Skov says, dropping the frat boy act. “Keep Lynch away from us.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Keep Lynch out of our way for the next few months. Until graduation, at least.”

“That’s not advice.”

Skov flashes him an unkind smile. “You don’t want my actual advice, bro.”

How perceptive is Skov?

It’s a question Adam should have asked a long time ago. He’s right, Adam wants to know how they knew about Gansey. Just…not as much as he wants to know how they got through Jesse Dittley’s cave unharmed and found them. Not as much as he wants to know why it never occurred to him, even after finding out about Prokopenko, even after being bemused by Skov for years, that Kavinsky might not be the last secret Henrietta was hiding.

“No,” Adam says slowly. “I suppose I don’t. I’m going to leave now.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

Adam shouldn’t be backing down from this guy. Skov has nothing on him. Cabeswater would protect him, if it came to that.

He isn’t backing down, though. He’s rearranging his energies. Skov isn’t worth it. He’s something, all right. Very likely magical or tapped into magic. There’s a difference. Swan is something, too. Kavinsky certainly was. If your mind was flexible enough, so was Prokopenko, that sorry schmuck.

Persephone wouldn’t have wasted energy trying to figure them out. She would have told Adam to think wider. The world is so much more than little, insignificant people.

Whatever these two are, they aren’t a threat. Adam might be a threat to them but they aren’t to him. Nothing is, anymore.

They saved Henry Cheng, for Chrissake. They went and risked their lives for a boy Adam wouldn’t have done the same for. Does it matter why they did it? If Adam was back in that cave and the choice was get Gansey out or Cheng…well.

If they hadn’t been there, there might have been two dead that day. There had only been one favor.

Adam knows Cheng was never in any danger. Because Skov, Swan, and Jiang were there. Because the boy Neeve grabbed and stuck a knife into was fated to be Gansey. Because at that moment Cheng was in the company of three boys who wanted him alive. Because they somehow knew Cheng was going to be there even though Gansey had only asked the night before.

It doesn’t matter how or what they knew. They were there at the right time and place.

Adam can live not knowing.

He heads towards the door. From here, he’ll go back to Gansey’s room. He didn’t get Gansey flowers.

Gansey wouldn’t have wanted them and they would have gotten into a minor argument over the price of them. Blue and Ronan already smuggled in a mint pot in instead. Helen brought him an even bigger one. Gansey offended her by saying he preferred Blue’s and Ronan’s, since it came from Monmouth.

"Parrish," Swan calls. Adam turns back. "Don't think we don't know what you are."

Adam does not smile but, if he did, it would be with the force of an ancient forest. Whatever these two are, Cabeswater is greater.

There are no threats anymore.

"Good."

 


	29. Chapter 29

Jiang wakes up to a pounding on his door. His roommate didn’t come home last night and Jiang was enjoying the sweet, sweet relief of no four a.m. alarm.

He opens the door, expecting Skylar with his wet, chlorine-scented hair and apologetic, I-lost-my-key-again smile.

It’s not Skylar.

“Can we talk?” Cheng asks.

It’s six in the morning and he’s dressed in pants, a white button up, and a blazer. He’s paired boat shoes with this ensemble because he’s as preppy as they come when he wants to be. His only concession to Aglionby is the gel in his hair.

Jiang’s eyes are rebelling being open at this hour.

“Huh?” Jiang is not so good at conversation when he first wakes up. Kavinsky was always terrible about that, sending texts at obscene hours of the morning and expecting an answer when Jiang was still lying in bed deciding how many spoons he had for the day.

“I want you back.”

Jiang knows he looks insultingly disinterested. He’s not. He just can’t convince his facial muscles to cooperate with his brain.

“Can we do this inside?” he asks, turning his head to check whether anyone has overheard Henry Cheng declaring his desire for another male student. They’ve got a couple months left. Plenty of time to destroy a reputation.

Jiang ushers Cheng inside and closes the door behind him. He leans against it.

“You want what now?”

“I want you back.”

“You want me back,” Jiang echoes. The fuck is Cheng talking about? He never had him in the first place.

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I just want to be with you.”

Jiang, slightly more awake than a second ago, stares at him. He was not expecting this.

“Are we talking friends or, like, dating?”

“Both. Either.” Cheng looks a little too happy now that Jiang’s caught on. Fucking shit. He’s serious.

“Did Skov put you up to this?” Jiang asks, running both hands over his face.

“No?” The rising tone seems to be more directed at the idea that Cheng would do anything Skov asked him to, which, good point.

“Okay.” Jiang frowns, hands dropping to his sides. He slips them into the pockets of his pajama pants. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you think you want to be with me?”

"Because I like you! Fuck!" Cheng grips his hair in his hands tightly, crushing his carefully gelled peaks, then throws his hands up in the air in frustration. "How do you not get that? I like you so much and you just. Keep. Walking. Away."

Jiang gapes at him.

They were friends for six months. Cheng’s too stupid to realize that friendship ended years ago. That doesn’t mean it didn’t. Jiang doesn’t get to live in Cheng’s world.

"This is not going to be a thing," Jiang says, pointing between them, "you and me."

"Why not?" Cheng is so earnest. He steps closer. He thinks this could actually work.

Jiang remembers this, Cheng's intensity, how he'd stand so close sometimes, how he'd look at Jiang like he wanted to do something he wouldn't regret. There was a magnetism to him. It dizzied Jiang, captivated him, made him want to belong to this hungry-eyed boy.

_Let me be your secret._

For six months, Jiang was grasping at the edges of a world he was never supposed to be a part of, hoping he could mold his shameful existence into something people's eyes didn't slide past.

Hide. That's the only answer. Don't let them find out. Don't give people a reason to suspect. You're nothing but an unwanted bastard.

And that isn't even the worse secret.

Cheng can't know. Jiang can't bear to see the disgust and disappointment on his face.

"You pretended," Cheng would accuse if he knew. "You pretended you were one of us." Democratic, fair, willing to pass judgement on things like domestic policy and center right politics.

Jiang did pretend. He would have done anything to stay at Cheng's side.

"What do you mean he's your father?" Cheng would ask. "Do you know what I'm trying to do? Do you know what my grandparents escaped?"

Jiang does, of course he does. He can't help that Cheng's family suffered and his own thrived. A country was transformed in a scant seventy years. Not everyone was going to like the way it happened. Not everyone got to reap the benefits.

Still, China's changed. Cheng's family fled during the sixties, during the worst of it. They lived through war and famine and the reshaping of a country many times over only to find that their background marked them as a social ill. They got out and Cheng was brought up on ideals like guaranteed freedoms and democracy, and the promise that he could actually make a difference if he tried hard enough. Jiang’s family stayed and rose through the CCP's ranks. Ideals were just that: ideals. Survive, thrive. That was his family’s creed.

"How many of your father's constituents suffered so you could have those clothes and that car?" Cheng would ask and Jiang wouldn't know. He hasn't kept up with his father's scandals. He's only a minor party official. It can't be too many.

Any is too many for Cheng.

"And you're damaged goods besides." He'd look at Jiang with all the abhorrence he didn't know he should have been feeling and he'd land the final blow. "What respectable person could ever want you?"

Yes, what respectable person.

Joseph Kavinsky had never been respectable. He had seen the shamefulness in Jiang, the parts of him that said  _my money is ill-gotten, my silences have meaning._

"You’re a liar," Kavinsky once said to him. "I like that.”

Cheng wouldn’t like a liar.

"You don't know?" Jiang knows he sounds hysterical. "You have a future, Cheng, and I-"

"You what? Don't? You'd have been kicked out by now if your grades were bad. You could go anywhere. You're an Aglionby student!"

He’s not wrong. Jiang’s applied to a few schools he knows will take him. He's even shot for a few Ivy Leagues. It’s just- he doesn’t really know what he wants to do with his life. For so long, it’s been day-to-day.

"Why do you care so much?" he asks Cheng.

“Everyone should strive to be their best selves," Cheng says. It sounds like a mantra, one of those stupid sayings that get written on top of pictures of mountains or sunsets. It's stupid and charming, and so very Cheng. "I want to see you succeed, Jiang. I know you can.”

“That’s not an answer.” It's not the real answer. Jiang's afraid to say so, though, because he's afraid Cheng will tell him what is. “Get back to me when you figure out whatever it is you want from me.”

He opens the door and ushers Cheng through it. When Cheng turns back, mouth open to say something, Jiang slams the door in Cheng’s face.

One day, Jiang might tell Cheng it was never about him, it was always about himself, his issues.

The fact that back home everyone knows he's a worthless bastard.

The fact that he’s afraid of letting anyone know how ill he is because it's easier for people to back out of a friendship than to deal with that shit.

The fact that Kavinsky, who never cared, who actually wanted to help Jiang in his fucked up way, felt like freedom. Jiang had to watch him spiral out of control and now he’s stuck knowing why it is the two of them got on so well.

The fact that, outside of one aborted attempt by  _Dick Gansey_  of all people, no one's offered him real sympathy because everyone's been expecting him to go the same way. It’s coming up on a year now and people still don’t trust Jiang to make it through. They don’t know half of his issues, but they look at him and instinctively know he’s not worth missing.

Someone's pounding on his door. Jiang lets this go on for thirty seconds before he throws the door open.

“What?!” Jiang demands.

"Can you be honest with me for once?" Cheng asks. "Do you even like me?"

Jiang frowns.

"Of course I do." Jiang hasn't stopped liking Cheng since the day Cheng's hand first touched his. 

"Then why-"

"Look at me!" Jiang gestures to himself and his pathetic, disease-ravaged body. "What do you see in this, Cheng, honestly? We're graduating in a few months. Even if we try, it isn't going to last."  _Please, let me go. Forget you ever felt like this. You can do so much better._

"You can't know that," Cheng says.

“I do.”

"You _can't_."

They stare at each other. Jiang's always had an abundance of willpower. Right now, looking at Cheng's earnest face, how obviously he wants him, he's losing all of it.

Jiang drags his bottom lip through his teeth.

Cheng grabs the front of his shirt and pulls Jiang to him. He tilts Jiang's chin up, turns his head, and then they're kissing. 

Jiang tries not to moan but he can't help it, not when he's wanted this for so long. He twines his fingers in Cheng's gelled hair and opens his mouth for that hot tongue. One of Cheng's hands curves around his hip and the other cups his jaw. Jiang's aching for this, wanting it so bad every touch sends electric sparks along his skin, every harsh breath shivers down his spine. He's drowning and Cheng is-

Cheng is going places. He doesn't need to waste time trying to save Jiang. He needs to move on and forget this infatuation.

Jiang shoves Cheng off him. His heart's slamming against his chest. He feels startlingly awake.

"Go," Jiang tells Cheng. He can't meet his eyes. He can't look at the hurt there. "I- I need you to go."

Cheng doesn't argue, just pulls back. The last part of him to leave is his hand on Jiang's hip and it's reluctant, achingly so. Jiang wants to grab Cheng's arm and keep his hand there, keep that contact going forever. He wants to tell Cheng to stay.

He stays silent. He stands there and he watches Cheng leave, and he knows this is the last time.

Jiang shuts the door, waiting for the automatic lock to click. He slides to the floor, back against the wall, and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Cheng's going places. He's got a reputation he needs to think about, one that doesn't involve fucked up guys with crooked families. He's going to _be_ somebody.

It's better this way.


	30. Chapter 30

“I want to find him,” Swan tells Skov and Skov knows he doesn’t mean his father.

They end up in front of the New Haven County Courthouse, studying a weathered statue of Cicero. If Morris is here, he'll find them.

It takes him an hour.

“You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Morris sighs. He shoves his twitching hands deep into his pockets and grimaces.

"Where is he?" one of them asks. It doesn’t matter which. Morris saw something they couldn’t and he chose to keep it a secret. There aren’t many things worse than that.

Morris swallows, the corners of his mouth arcing downwards. He scratches his neck. “Newark.”

“Where?” Swan asks.

“Why? Are you going to dig him up?”

Swan’s thinking about it, if only to find out how he died.

Morris looks like he swallowed something he didn’t enjoy. He grabs Skov's arm and pulls a pen from his messenger bag at the same time. He clicks the pen.

"What's this?" Skov asks, looking down at the series of numbers and apostrophes Morris is writing on his arm.

"Coordinates," Morris says. "Meet me there in three hours."

"Three?"

Morris huffs. "You might be able to make it in two but I don't feel like getting pulled over today, if that's okay by you. Three hours."

 

* * *

 

"I bought this lot last July when it came up for sale," Morris says. "The previous owner had passed away and it was going for cheap. A development company would have gotten it if I hadn't managed to pull a few strings."

The overgrown grass sways in the wind. It's at least an acre of empty land that Morris has done nothing with.

Swan's breath is coming too fast. Saliva gathers in his mouth. Another minute and he's going to puke.

"What are we looking at?" Skov asks because of course he doesn't know, can't feel what's underneath the grass.

"A cemetery," Morris says.

"A mass grave," Swan says at the same time.

One hundred tries to make a car. How many to make a person? Of course, he wouldn't get it right the first time.

Swan's felt a lot of things but never anything so familiar and so alien. He looks around, hoping for a ghost, something to explain this. There isn't one. You have to be human to become a ghost and only one of these ever was.

Swan's stomach fails him. He walks as far away as he can before he desecrates Proko's gravesite- gravesites, holy shit there are hundreds of bodies buried here, K must have spent the whole summer digging- and ends up emptying his stomach underneath a tree while Skov rubs soothing circles into his back.

"Why?" Swan asks him. His eyes ache. They sting as tears prick at them. "Why did he keep trying?"

Skov pauses, then he says, "I don't think he could live without him."

"There are hundreds under there, Skov.  _Hundreds_."

Skov's hand stills, then resumes its ministrations.

"Would you do this, if it were me?" Swan asks. He's afraid Skov will say yes.

"No," Skov says and it sounds like the truth. "But then I never really lose you, do I?"

It's an acceptable answer. Swan wouldn't want this horror.

Of course, hypotheticals don't matter. What does is what a desperate dreamer, one who had destroyed the most important person in his life, did. One who never had to answer for the shit he pulled because when push came to shove, he took himself out.

Swan thought K had been lazy. He saw all the things K overlooked when he brought the puppet- Proko, it was Proko, it had always been Proko, as close as K could make him, why hadn't Swan been able to admit that when it mattered- back.

How long would it have taken Swan before he gave up, said this attempt is the last one, whatever comes next is good enough?

Far less than this.

"Better?" Skov asks quietly.

Swan says yes. They both know he's lying.

Morris is waiting for them when they walk back.

"Is this why you left?" Swan asks. He very carefully doesn't look at the field and the horrors it's hiding.

"My family moved. I went with them." His stony face says,  _this is why I stayed away_.

They drive back into the city. It's quiet, the three of them subdued.

They stop at a McDonald's. Morris barely eats. He picks at his food and fidgets, glancing at the clock too often to be polite.

Moving quickly enough to set Swan on edge, Morris grabs a napkin. He scribbles a few words on it, then slides it across the booth to Skov.

"What's this?" Skov asks.

"Safe places," Morris says. "Major cities no ley line runs through."

Skov looks at the napkin now with interest.

Swan glances at the paper. Nowhere he's been has ever made a difference. Ley lines can't be responsible for everything.

Skov thanks Morris and folds the napkin up carefully. He tucks it into his pocket.

Morris looks at the clock again.

"How's Jiang?" he asks and Swan's been part of enough awkward conversations to know he doesn't really care.

He tells him anyway about how Jiang's doing better. He's steadier now, healthier than when Morris saw him last. He'll be better once he gets with Cheng. Jiang's one of those people who needs someone checking up on them, hounding them to take care of themselves, and Cheng wants to be that person more than anything. It's just up to Jiang to accept him.

Morris is polite, says "uh huh" and "yeah" in all the right places. He looks like he wants to be anywhere else.

"I'd like to leave now," he says when it's getting on one o'clock, "if you don't mind."

"Yeah, sure. Do you want us to drop you off at your car?" It's obvious they make Morris uncomfortable. They always have. Morris has a way of looking like his skin doesn't fit him quite right, like he's biding his time, just waiting for the opportunity to peel it all off.

Morris shakes his head. It looks an awful lot like a shudder. "I'd rather walk."

He pauses, letting his fingers trail on the edge of the table not too far from a streak of dried ketchup.

"Can I ask you something?" Morris asks. "Why do you want K to be the villain so bad?”

“I don’t,” Swan says. “I just want everyone to know what he did.”

“And what,” Morris asks, “do you think that is?”

Swan narrows his eyes at him.

"Have you ever read Seneca?" Morris continues. "One of his most famous lines is ' _aliquando enim et vivere fortiter facere est_.' Generally, it's translated as 'sometimes even to live is an act of courage.'"

Swan's eyes narrow further. There have always been minefields in Morris' words.

"It's from a letter he wrote to the procurator of Sicily," Morris explains. "When Seneca was young, he got so ill he thought about ending his life. What stopped him was his father. 'The thought of my kind old father kept me back. For I reflected, not how bravely I had the power to die, but how little power he had to bear bravely the loss of me. And so I commanded myself to live. For sometimes even to live is an act of courage.'"

"Why are you telling us this?" Skov asks.

"Because the part of that letter that gets me isn't the bit at the end. It's 'how little power he had to bear bravely the loss of me'." Morris raps his knuckles on the table. "Think on that." 

 

* * *

  

People aren't meant to know the things Morris knows. They're supposed to keep secrets. The world is supposed to be made up of lies.

Morris left Henrietta long after lies became empty words. His mother got the professorship, true, but he couldn't stay in that place any longer. Not when he could see all of it.

Secrets are kindnesses. They keep you from knowing how cruel life can be. They let you have hope.

What do you do when you know four of your friends are going to die in a two year timespan? Do you try and prevent it? Or do you cut all ties and run for the hills? If you're Morris, you do the latter.

But you're not fast enough, and summer comes and Proko goes. K doesn't sleep except to dream because sleep means blood and brain matter and finding the still warm body of his boyfriend on the floor, a gun cooling in his hand.

 _Do you know why you can't see?_ If he could, Morris would ask Swan. _You would if you stopped to think._

He can't ask Swan, though. There's only so much Morris can say before the words stick in his throat and refuse to come out, an unseen power staying his hand.

But when you press and you press and you travel five hundred miles to ask, Morris will find a reacharound. Burdens are easier when they're shared.

He just wishes it hadn't taken so long to share this one.

There's blood and brain matter in Morris' dreams, too, similar but not the same as K's. He created them so fast, so desperately, one after another. Mouthless, eyeless, senseless. Then K pointed a gun at their heads and shot them down, one after the other, until he had a forgery that would never, ever leave him.

How much can you scrape away until a person loses something fundamental? How much can you keep?

Morris was five hundred miles away and he saw it all.

Even before he left, he saw. He saw how Proko avoided mirrors. He never looked at pictures of himself right after they were taken, not until he had time to brace himself for the end result. Proko would trick himself into thinking he was okay. It wasn't as bad as he thought, he'd tell himself, he just needed to get his confidence back. He just needed to believe K's words. He needed to remember Jiang's smiles, Skov's teasing, Swan's quiet acceptance. And for a time Proko would believe. He'd wake up and he'd think he was loved, he was cherished, he was wanted. Then he'd see his reflection in a window and things would crumble again.

Proko was going and Morris saw the end before it even happened. Skov gets possibilities. Swan and Morris get realities. Only, while there are some things Swan can't see, there's nothing that escapes Morris' notice.

But he couldn't stop Proko and he couldn't warn K.

So Morris stayed away and he watched from afar because he couldn't stop _seeing_.

K buried himself in that forgery of his, pretending it was okay, it was enough. Once the high of creation wore away, he began to see what the others saw. This forgery was not the one he wanted, the one he could never have again.

But he didn't kill it and he didn't try again. Because that forgery, flawed as it is, really was his favorite.

 _He's falling apart_ , Morris wanted to tell Skov but he couldn't. Skov already knew K wouldn't last. He's seen this happen so many times he can pinpoint the day it started. Catalyst is right. Only Skov's got the event wrong. It wasn't trying to bring Proko back: it was Proko leaving.

It was the thought that Proko would rather commit suicide than stay with Kavinsky in this nightmare of a world.

In the midst of this, Morris saw Rasmussen's mind churning. He saw that girl, what's her name, Kim-something, claiming the kid was his so no one would find out the real father is thirty-two and in prison. He saw Jiang's life about to go to hell because he has to go down before he goes up.

And he saw Dvorak, standing on a precipice, ready to jump off.

 _I saw what you did_ , Morris could say to Rasmussen. It's one of the few things he can but saying it would give Rasmussen the satisfaction of thinking what he did was somehow for the best. _Did you really think I wouldn't? I see_ everything.

This is why Morris left Henrietta.

 

* * *

 

 

It's only after Morris leaves that Swan realizes he didn't tell them what they came for.

Maybe it doesn't matter. Morris showed them the reality he cared about, the one that involved a field filled with mistakes.

"He's not going to tell us," Swan says to Skov.

"I kind of figured he wasn't," Skov says, squeezing his thigh. He steals one of Swan's chicken nuggets and dips it in ketchup before chewing it. He swallows. "That guy does what he wants."

"You think he's protecting him?"

Skov shrugs. "Dunno. Morris is a strange dude. I think he just didn't want us prying."

Skov eats another chicken nugget, then levels Swan with a strange look. "I meant what I said. I wouldn't replace you."

"I know."

And Swan does. Skov's seen him die a hundred times over, killed him most of them, and instead of staying away, he makes a point of sticking with him.

But again, Swan can't help thinking it wasn't like that for K and isn't for most people. K had one shot and whatever happened- happened. It happened and K tried to bring Proko back because there was no second chance that wasn't of his own making.

"Was I wrong to be mad at him?" Swan asks as Skov eats the last of the fries and licks the salt from his fingers.

Skov considers this. "I don't think so. It's not like he explained anything."

K never did have time for things as trivial as explanations.

"Do you think it could have been an accident?" Swan asks. You don't try that hard if you're just testing out what you can do. You don't create and create, and create if you don't care, at least a little.

Skov frowns.

"I think he was trying to change him," he says. "The forgery came out different every time. I think, if he really tried, he could have made a perfect copy. He didn't."

 _He was trying to change him._  Swan lets those words roll over his tongue. K was trying to change Proko. But why? There was never anything wrong with Proko, nothing K didn't like about him. Except...

Oh.

Skov's eyes meet Swan's.

_Why do you want K to be the villain so bad?_

Maybe they'd known all along. Maybe they hadn't wanted to believe because believing meant that the best of them, the only one who could be called genuinely _good_ , had never thought he was.

Maybe Swan looked at the puppet and refused to think about why K stripped so many things away but added only one. Maybe Skov saw the changes, all the attempts across so many lifetimes, and knew K was trying to make a Proko whose every inclination was to stay by his side. Maybe Jiang was dropping hints when he said the things K took away weren't things that needed to stay.

Maybe Swan and Skov had been deliberately blind because seeing meant acknowledging how much Proko and Swan had in common.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Skov asks.

"Please."

 

* * *

 

 

They get a hotel.

"One bed or two?" Skov asks and Swan looks at him like the answer should be obvious.

"One," Skov tells the desk clerk.

"I need some time," Swan says when they reach the room and Skov leaves him be. He lights a joint and that's how Swan knows this is getting to him, too.

Swan goes into the bathroom. He sits down on the toilet, head in his hands, trying to process what he should have realized a long time ago. He stares at the tiled floor, then at the door as things click, as his worldview shifts, as anger he's held onto so long has nowhere to go and is forced to slowly dissipate.

Swan stands up and leaves the bathroom. He goes over to Skov, who's sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed.

"Give me some of that," he says.

Skov looks up. He's never been good at hiding the pain in his eyes. He lifts his hand, prepared to pass the joint and Swan thinks better of it. He places his hands on Skov's shoulders and presses their mouths together, sucking the smoke from Skov's lungs. Skov sighs deeply and Swan tilts his head, fits their mouths together better. He crawls into Skov's lap, pressing his knees into either side of Skov's firm thighs.

Skov pulls back to breathe. He takes another hit. Swan wastes no time stealing his air. He blows it out the side of his mouth and hears Skov's brief chuckle.

They continue like that until there's nothing left to smoke. Skov tips the blunt into an ashtray and then his hands are on Swan where they belong. Normally Swan would bat his hands away, would keep them on his hips and ass, away from his face but he doesn’t stop him now.

There’s greed in Skov’s eyes when he leans in and kisses Swan. His eyes have gone dark, the pupils wide and black. His strong, warm hands cup Swan’s jaw. The kiss is slow, red hot.

"If you could do anything to me," Swan asks, feeling loose and imprudent, "what would it be?"

"This," Skov says and he flips Swan over. Swan panics for a brief second before he remembers this is Skov. Skov would never take advantage of him.

And he doesn’t. Skov kisses him lazy and slow, working his way from Swan’s mouth down his throat. He tugs at Swan’s shirt, helps him sit up, and pull it off, and kisses him again, sucking on his tongue.

His hands, those big, blocky hands, roam, tracing over a nipple here, an old scar there. He dips his head and kisses the hollow of Swan’s throat. Skov’s nails scrape over Swan’s ribs. Swan arches his back, giving Skov the opportunity to press an open-mouthed kiss to his sternum.

Skov peppers kisses to Swan's ribs, strokes his hands over his ass and inner thighs. He doesn't touch Swan's cock.

Swan's never felt particularly attached to it. That's probably a cause for concern but he chalks it up to too many years of people trying to fetishize that particular body part and lets the thought go. One day he might come back to it and reevaluate his gender identity. Right now, it's not a problem.

Although, a small part of him has to wonder if his disinterest isn't tied into why he's so willing to let himself get hurt, why he picks at his scabs and stitches until the scars form bigger and uglier than they need to, why he likes it when his bruises unsettle the people around him. He's trying to change the narrative. Mar the skin a little, take away the things that make him an object of desire for so many. Ruin himself for everyone who wants to make him theirs.

Except, of course, one person.

The same person who, years ago, took a razor blade from Swan's hand and said, _let me, I have more practice._

Skov revels in the destruction. He helps craft it with his teeth and his hands, and Swan has never been able to put him off no matter what he does.

Skov kisses the bullet wounds. He presses his tongue against them, reclaiming them, these marks that he didn't create, making them things of beauty, precious and his. Swan sighs into the touch, tangles his hands in Skov's hair and holds him there, and Skov grins.

And he doesn't stop. He touches Swan like he's a masterpiece, just absolutely enamored with every inch of his body, and if Swan were a different sort of person, there would be tears pricking at the corners of his eyes because this is not normal. This is deep and intense and so much more than Swan ever thought he would be allowed.

It’s sweet and soft and nothing Swan’s let himself have before and damn if it doesn’t feel good. He wraps his arms around Skov’s neck, buries his hands in Skov’s thick, brown hair, and lets himself be loved.

 

* * *

  

After Swan got discharged from the hospital, Skov took him to his parents’ place. Mrs. Skovron let them stay in Skov’s room together. Word had gotten around that some maniac had shot Swan and tried to do Gansey in and, while Aglionby students and faculty tended to think one thing, the Skovrons chose to believe it was a hate crime, something serious and easy to categorize. They let Swan share a bed with the son they thought was his boyfriend. That way Skov could help Swan with his wounds and reassure him that he was alright, they were both alright.

Swan didn’t mind. Skov’s attention was a bit cloying, a little more saccharine than Swan really thought the situation merited, but it was nice not having judgmental roommates and it was nice going home with Skov every night. And he really did need help with the exit wound on his back.

At night, Skov was attentive. He caressed Swan’s face, stroked his sides, kissed him softly and undemandingly. When they showered together, he washed Swan’s back, careful not to get the bandages wet. In bed, he’d lean his head against Swan’s shoulder blades while Swan checked his phone or flipped through a magazine.

It was very much like they were a definite thing.

The day before Swan returned to the dorms, Skov turned Swan on his stomach. He lit a candle and dripped the hot wax down Swan's spine. Swan bit into a pillow and then his fist as Skov peeled the wax off and laved his tongue down the brutalized skin. Skov then took lube and worked him open, three fingers against his prostate until Swan was a moaning, shuddering wreck.

There was something very satisfying about defiling Skov’s childhood bed.

 

* * *

 

"I'd never replace you, never," Skov whispers into his skin now. Swan smiles so hard it hurts, loops his arms around Skov's neck and kisses him the way he should have for years, the way he knows he will for years to come.

There was a time when he hated Skov. He used to be afraid of the offer at the end of every sentence. He couldn't stand the way Skov looked at him, like he was anything other than a one-time conquest, like Skov expected them to be something.

Now they move together and it's like this was meant to be. Swan doesn't want to fight it. He has the strength to, he's not too tired to fight, never too tired to fight, but he wants to give in to the only constant in his life. He wants to be touched and loved and venerated and he doesn't fucking care if people look at the two of them and think they don't belong. Because, honestly, fuck people. Fuck this shitty world where people die and bad things happen and no one cares. Fuck everything and anything that isn't Skov's teeth on his neck and Skov's hands on his hips, and Skov's cock between his thighs.

Swan's got both hands flat on the wall, legs spread. Skov buries his teeth in the meat of Swan’s shoulder, groaning when Swan can’t hold his shout back. He slams his hips forward, back, forward, back, one hand tangled with Swan’s against the wall, the other between Swan’s legs, teasing.

Swan huffs a laugh. It comes out strangled and breathless. Skov shudders at the sound. He's pounding into Swan now, exactly as Swan likes it, hard and fast and rhythmic. He's so good at this, so practiced, Swan has to wonder how many years they've been fucking, how many alternate versions of him Skov's done this to.

It's that thought, that fucked up, perverted thought that pushes him over the edge.

Skov comes a moment later. He pulls out and Swan collapses on the bed, pressing his cheek against a pillow.

He yelps and nearly sits up when Skov parts his cheeks. Skov pushes him back down. Swan goes with a quiet moan.

Skov presses his tongue flat against Swan's hole. The flesh is already hot and sore, the heat of his tongue only highlighting both aspects. Swan knows what he's doing but he still has to stifle a groan into one of the pillows when a finger joins that tongue and Skov begins to eat him out.

It's not surprising that Skov likes this. He's irrepressibly oral, would put his mouth and tongue anywhere Swan would let him. No, what's surprising is that _Swan_ likes this. He should think it's filthy and disgusting, debasing even, to be at Skov's mercy like this.

But it feels so, so good.

Skov crooks his finger, searching for Swan's prostate. It hurts, too much, too fast. The orgasm is shaky and small, knives scraping over nerves, and damn if Swan doesn't love it.

Skov kisses the small of Swan's back before moving off the bed. He goes to the bathroom and Swan can hear water running. He turns over, places his hands above his head, and waits for Skov to come back.

The washcloth Skov lays on him feels like sandpaper. Swan grits his teeth as Skov wipes the last of his come away. His oversensitized skin protests even the six hundred thread count sheets he's lying on.

Skov lies down next to him. His eyes are bright blue again. He smiles softly at Swan but keeps his hands to himself.

They breathe in the cool air of the room.

Swan is the first to say anything.

“I've been thinking,” he says to the ceiling, feeling simultaneously out of it and hyperaware. “I want us to be a real thing.”

“Yeah?” Skov asks.

Swan turns onto his side, curling an arm under a pillow and resting his cheek against it. “I mean it. I want this-“ he gestures to Skov and himself, “-to be long-term.”

“If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were asking me to prom,” Skov deadpans. There’s a trace, just a trace, of unsteadiness in his voice.

“We don’t have a prom,” Swan tells him. He leans over and covers Skov’s mouth with his own. He lets the kiss linger, savoring the way Skov follows when he starts to pull away. “I want to be with you, you idiot. Not just hooking up at parties or spending the night together when we get the chance. I want to know you’re mine and I-” Swan sucks in a breath. “-I want to be yours, too.”

One of Skov's eyebrows arches. Swan's known him too long not to see the apprehension threaded through that gesture, like he thinks Swan's making some sort of perverted joke. _Ha, ha, got you, we've been having sex for ages but it's your body I want, not_ you _._

If Swan had regrets, he'd be having them now. Because he did this to them. He's the one who made Skov doubt every second of their relationship and rely instead on hope borne out of other lifetimes, other timelines, that Swan might actually want to be with him.

Swan would have trusted this boy to kill him and Skov can't let himself see what that means.

“Are you sure?” Skov asks.

“Of course, I’m sure,” Swan snaps and, oh, that's not the way he wants to go about this but it's the way he's going to. “You think I’d say I was if I weren’t?” He pokes Skov in the chest with a finger. “I want to be with you, Skov. I want you to hold my hand and tell me you fucking love me and I want to maybe grow old with you. I’m not so sure on that last part but, in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve kind of been dating for a year and a half now." Skov opens his mouth to slip a word in and Swan slaps a hand over it. "No, don't you interrupt me. We have absolutely been dating. We just didn't put a name on it. This-" Swan points to himself with his free hand, "-is me putting a name on it. You and me, Skov, we're dating. It's official. So don’t you get all self-conscious on me and act like this isn’t long overdue.”

Swan's heart is beating too hard. It's a lot of honesty very fast, and honesty, real, earthshaking, soul-quaking honesty, isn't something he's good at. For a moment, he thinks Skov might actually say something contradictory.

Then he smiles.

Skov is breathtaking when he smiles.

 

* * *

 

"Eighty," Swan says. He's sitting on the end of the hotel bed, tying his shoes. They're heading back to Henrietta today.

"Hmm?" Skov asks. He's shirtless and toweling his thick hair dry. Swan's been enjoying the show.

Nail tracks look good on Skov's pale ("tan!") skin. Swan just wishes they'd last, wishes he could mark Skov up the way Skov does him. But Skov disappears and comes back and his skin is as pale and unmarred as the day he was born and he has to redo his piercings because those don't stay, either.

"You said we got to eighty once. How did it end?"

Skov's hands still. He turns to look at Swan. "Heart disease. Leading cause of death in the U.S. Why?"

"And the other times?" Swan asks. Skov's not getting what he's asking.

Skov ticks them off on his hand. "Lung cancer, stroke, car accident, heart disease again, one time I dunno, we went to bed and, when I woke up, I was back here."

"What changed?" Swan presses.

"Why?" Skov asks cautiously.

For the last few days, something's been pulsing inside Swan, a desire he's never had before making itself known. It started in the hospital when Skov sat next to him, worry in every line of his being, or maybe before when they were struggling to get out of the cave and Skov's words,  _I never wanted to_ , kept repeating in Swan's increasingly delirious mind.

He wants to live. More than that, he wants a future.

"What changed? What made me keep living?" Swan hadn't wanted to spell it out.

Skov swallows, looks away. Swan's heart sinks.

There's an alt where Jiang isn't sick. Skov's talked about it before. In that timeline, Jiang's breathing comes easy, his colds aren't back-to-back, he's alert more often than not. 

He 

just

isn't

sick.

Of course there would be timelines where Swan is neurotypical.

Skov drops his towel on the dresser. He sits next to Swan and takes his hands in his own.

"No," Skov says, eyes and face so fervent Swan can hardly bear to look at him. "Baby, no, it's not like that. You've always been this way, as long as I've known you. What changed is you made a _choice_ , Swan. You got help and you _chose_ to stay alive. It wasn't easy. What I said, those times you- those are the alts where the treatment worked. There are times where it doesn't." 

"That's what you're worried about?" Swan asks. "It won't work?"

Skov nods cautiously. "I can't make you any promises."

"You can't really promise anything," Swan says, "can you?"

"I can promise I'll love you till the day I die."

Swan smiles. It's shaky but it's there.

"If I got treatment, would you stay with me?" he asks.

"I would do anything for you," Skov says ardently.

"Shut up. Would you help me?"

"Of course."

Swan leans forward and he kisses Skov softly, just a brush of lips against his cheek. Skov sucks in a shuddering breath.

A few minutes later, they leave the hotel room and get in Skov's car to begin the long drive back to Henrietta. Swan plays with the little hairs at the base of Skov's skull. He can't keep his hands off his boy, not when he can feel the changes between them and he knows they're good. They've been together two years and two thousand and Swan, for the first time in this life, _his_ life, is going to try for another eighty.


	31. Chapter 31

"Go away," Jiang says before Cheng has a chance to say anything.

Swan slides off the Supra's hood. Jiang could punch him for leaving him alone.

"What do you want?" Jiang asks. He watches Swan walk over to where Skov is talking to a couple members of the lacrosse team. Swan plucks Skov's cap from his head and places it on his own before stealing a swig of his beer. Skov looks at him with blatant adoration. Swan gives the beer back and slides a hand into Skov's back pocket. He laughs when Skov leans over and whispers in his ear.

"Can I bum one of those?" Cheng asks, nodding to the cigarette resting between Jiang's fingers. He climbs onto the Supra's hood to sit next to Jiang uninvited.

Jiang stares. "You don't smoke."

"When in Rome."

Jiang pulls his pack out. He taps it against his palm and drops a cigarette in Cheng's palm. Cheng places it between his lips and leans over, expectant. Jiang flicks his lighter twice before he can get a steady light.

There's something erotic in the way Cheng sucks in the first lungful and doesn't cough.

"Social smoker?" Jiang guesses.

"I know how to hold my poison."

There's no space between them. Cheng's got an arm behind Jiang, not touching him, just using it to prop himself up. He's half-turned towards Jiang, his body heat hot against Jiang's skin. Their thighs are pressed against each other. They're all but breathing each other's air.

Cheng nods at Skov and Swan.

"How long have they been together?" he asks.

"Two or three years, as far as I can figure," Jiang says. It's funny. Jiang's never even seen them kiss, just come across them in seriously compromising positions. He can never tell if they know they're a couple. It works for them, what they have, but it's confusing, almost deliberately obfuscated, for everyone else. "It's not really something they talk about." 

Proko, Jiang remembers sadly, was convinced they would be together for the rest of their lives.

"They're good for each other."

"Yeah," Jiang says to his own surprise, "they kind of are."

He takes a drag of his cigarette, lays an arm across his stomach, and leans back against the windshield. He lets the smoke fill his lungs before blowing it out in a steady stream. Cheng watches him. He didn't move his arm away when he should have. Jiang can feel his hand under his back. It can't be comfortable.

Jiang doesn't want Cheng to ever move that hand.

He plays with the hem of his shirt so he doesn't have to look Cheng in the eyes.

"Why are you here?" he asks. _You should have given up a long time ago._

Cheng flicks his half-smoked cigarette to the ground, doesn't even bother to stamp it out. Jiang watches the glow fade from red to black.

"I'm here for the same reason you were in that cave." Cheng looks at him.

Jiang's breath catches.

"I'm not saying you trying to get me out means anything. Pretend it's human decency all you want. But you can't tell me you knowing I was going to be there doesn't mean something."

"Are you calling me a stalker?" Jiang tries to make the words sound light. It's a paltry effort.

"I think," Cheng says, "you've been trying to look out for me for a while now."

Jiang goes to take a steadying drag but his cigarette's barely more than ash. He puts it out on the bottom of his shoe.

Cheng leans in. He shifts forward, his free hand coming up to cup Jiang's cheek. Jiang can't help it, he turns into the touch.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” Cheng says quietly, his eyes boring into Jiang's. “Tell me I’ve got this all wrong and I’ll walk away and never bother you again.”

“It’d be that easy,” Jiang asks, “to give me up?”

“ _No,_ ” Cheng answers. “It would be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But if it would make you happy, I'd do it in a heartbeat.”

Jiang shivers.

"It's not about what I want," he says.

"Then what is it about?"

Jiang looks up at the sky. The clouds are large, cottony masses today. They float by lazily. Spring in the valley.

"There are things about me you don't know."

"As in?"

"As in- as in I used to have this friend, Zhangjie." Jiang feels both frenetic and loose. His words come too fast. "I don't know, I'm maybe five when my mom starts arranging playdates for us. Zhangjie, he's great. He isn't the brightest but he's funny. Nice. He's rich, more than me, but he's not spoiled.

"Except things are weird. Zhangjie's father and mine, Mom says, they work together. Mom says, no talking to Zhangjie's mother unless necessary. Don't mention your father.

"Zhangjie and me, we play together, eat together, study together. Best friends. Except I can't talk about my dad and I never meet his. All the time, they're working. And I'm so _stupid_ , I ask no questions.

Jiang laughs bitterly. "Then, when I'm twelve, Zhangjie's dad, he comes home. I'm still there. Zhangjie and me, we're working on something. I've got a pen in my hand. Zhangjie hears the door before I do. He gets up and he runs to his father, and the man lifts him up and spins him around. Picture perfect father-son moment. Our eyes meet.

"And you know who I'm looking at?"

Cheng shakes his head wordlessly.

Jiang's laugh isn't bitter this time. It isn't even a laugh- it's a sob.

"My dad. It's a week since we saw each other last. Busy, Mom told me." Jiang bites the corners of his lips to stop the trembling. "His _face_ , Cheng _._  Shock all over it. He had no idea I'd be there."

Zhangjie didn't figure it out that day. Jiang, always the bright one, always the smart one, did. He took one look at his father and he ran, out the front door, out of the neighborhood into an older part of the city where shattered glass and trash lined the streets and collected in the alleys.

He must have looked out of place, a little boy in nice clothes among the squalor. From that day forward, though, Jiang knew places like that were where he belonged. Glittering lights, fast cars, faster women. Unhappiness and decay around every corner.

Jiang doesn't belong in Cheng's world. Neither does Zhangjie.

Maybe no one does. Maybe Cheng is a person so infinitely perfect, so good no one can reach his level.

"So your dad's a dick," Cheng says. "And?"

Jiang's eyes flick down from the clouds. He opens his mouth and closes it again. He has heard County Committee Secretary Xia Weiguo called many things, but "dick" isn't one of them.

"And he's a CCP member." Cheng raises his eyebrows but doesn't seem repulsed. "And my name's not Jiang. I mean, it is, it's my mom's name but that's only 'cause she's technically married to this guy with the same name and- and I'm not okay." Jiang swallows, wishes he had another cigarette lit so he could place it in his stupid, stupid mouth and never speak again. "I'm really sick."

Cheng laughs. It's so out of place Jiang glares at him.

"I'm sorry," Cheng says, eyes full of mirth. "It's just, no shit, Jiang. What've you got? Some kind of immune system disorder?"

Jiang nods. "Chronic fatigue syndrome." It's a bullshit name for a bullshit disease, barely encompassing all the things wrong with him but it's what he's been told.

"Chronic fatigue syndrome," Cheng repeats. "I've heard of that." He plucks a piece of lint from Jiang's shirt, lets his fingers trail down Jiang's arm. Jiang shivers. "So those are your excuses: your father's a piece of shit and you think I can't deal with a little illness."

Jiang sags. Trust Cheng to make serious issues sound like nothing. He's going to make a great politician someday.

"Hey," Cheng says when Jiang doesn't answer. “Liuwei.”

It takes Jiang a moment to realize Cheng’s saying his name.

Cheng pushes Jiang's cap back to look in his eyes.

"Hey," he says again. He opens his arms, expecting Jiang to accept the hug.

Jiang can't help it. He leans into the embrace.

"I'm not good enough for you," Jiang mumbles into the hollow of Cheng's throat.

"Don't you think that's up to me to decide?"

Jiang shakes his head. If he let Cheng decide, Cheng would make the wrong choice every time. The things we want, after all, are rarely the things that are good for us.

Cheng pets the back of his head. It feels good.

"You know what your problem is?" Jiang bristles. Cheng continues petting his head. "You think you know what everyone wants. You think I want some heteronormative fantasy? That I care if people see you with me? I'm trying to effect  _real change_. If you didn't want to be with me because I'm going into politics, I'd get that but you act like you're an embarrassment to me and you're not. You could never be."

Jiang's heart can't decide whether it wants to two-time or stop altogether.

"I don't care,” Cheng says, hard and forceful, “if this lasts one day. I’ll still take it. That’s how much you mean to me. I was so angry, so _confused_ when you left for _Kavinsky_. I had to see you in class every day and you wouldn't even _talk_ to me."

"I'm sorry."

He is. Not for Kavinsky who let him feel normal and alive, but for cutting Cheng out when he now knows he didn't have to. He'd been so afraid Cheng would find out, couldn't even fathom that someone like him would accept all the broken pieces.

Cheng places a hand under Jiang's chin and tilts it up. He kisses him. Jiang doesn't hesitate to kiss back.

"You're so perfect," Cheng tells him, stroking the space between Jiang's ear and jaw, "you don't even know."

"I'm really not," Jiang says, laughing, feeling broken up inside. Cheng kisses him again, practiced but not particularly smooth.

"Hot, then. You can't deny that."

Jiang doesn't try.

“It’s not going to last,” Jiang says and even he can hear how paltry the excuse is.

“So?" Cheng asks. His voice is a low rumble that steals the space between them. "If we can’t have anything else, we’ll have the summer. You’ll give me that much, won’t you?”

Jiang would give Cheng the world.

 

* * *

 

This is how it goes now: they do stupid shit together and Skov says crazy things that aren't crazy at all and Jiang doesn't have to miss Henry because he's always there. Swan still drinks more than he eats and Jiang's not getting any better, but he thinks they'll be okay. Yeah, they'll be okay.

Jiang ends up the center of a minor scandal after Carruthers catches them making out behind Welch Hall's first floor stairwell. Carruthers starts talking and people collectively realize, in no particular order, that Henry Cheng is dating a guy, Henry Cheng's boyfriend is one of Aglionby's lowlifes, and said lowlife might be going to an Ivy League,  _what the fuck_. 

Their friends try to help. Andy Ma spreads a rumor that Henry and Jiang have been dating for years. 

Jiang's hands shake and anger wells up inside him when he hears that piece of historical revisionism, the one that erases Proko and the time that they had. Skov spreads a counterrumor that Henry didn't have the balls to ask Jiang out while Kavinsky was still around but you know those Asians, always got to stick together. It helps. The anger only stops when Henry tells Ma to fuck off and sets the record straight.

Jiang thinks he might learn to love this guy.

Things are getting good so fast Jiang forgets. He's focused on Henry and graduating, on Ma being a dick. When reality rears its ugly head, Jiang isn't prepared.

Two weeks after Jiang gets with Henry, nine months after he goes under, Proko passes in his sleep, having never woken up. 

When he hears the news, Jiang cries for the first time in years. He knows Skov and Swan arranged it somehow, just like he knows Proko was never going to wake back up again. It still hurts. A part of Jiang is missing that he's never going to get back. 

Jiang sobs into his sheets for hours, face pressed against his pillow, until Skylar finds him and puts an arm around him. He strokes Jiang's back and murmurs soothing words that don't soothe at all, finally leaving when he can't take it anymore. Then Skov comes. He sits next to Jiang and forces him to sit up, dragging Jiang into his chest. Jiang tries to resist, beating his fists uselessly against Skov's chest, but Skov holds firm until Jiang collapses against him. Skov holds him as Jiang cries and cries and cries until his throat aches and his eyes are sore and the pain on the outside starts to match the pain on the inside.

But the world doesn't end just because a dream did so Jiang pushes that loss to its own little corner and keeps going.

He gets waitlisted for a handful of schools, knowing one call from his father could get him in anywhere and one call from the Henrietta police could ruin him. He makes tentative plans when Henry gets acceptance letters from his top three. Jiang's not attached to where he goes but a summer isn't the same as a fall and a winter and a spring, and he's not going to ruin himself over a relationship.

Then Skov comes to him and starts talking nonsense. Four out of five odds and Cheng being an MP and marriage, and the fact that Cheng is head over heels for him, always has been, won't Jiang take the chance?

It's bugfuck nuts. Jiang wishes he could stop believing Skov but he's too far down that rabbit hole now and Swan's looking at him like he agrees Henry, someone Swan has  _never_ liked, is the greatest good Jiang is ever gonna get. And, really, what's the threat of college to high school relationships when Jiang's spent three years entrenched in actual magic?

So when Henry asks where he's going, Jiang tells him, "Wherever you are". And Henry, instead of arguing or telling him how phenomenally stupid it is to make your life decisions based on someone you've been with for a few months,  _kisses him_.

They're going to Dartmouth.

(Jiang is as amused as he is mildly offended by the student body's shock. Between his mother's harassment, his father's generous- if officially anonymous- donations, and a very explicit IEP that allows for extensive absences and rescheduling tests outside of class time, he's maintained a 3.9 GPA all three years.)

"We're going to travel for a while," Swan says when Jiang tells him. "Take a year off. See if we can't find someplace easier for us to live."

"You're not going to college?"

"Education was never really our thing," Swan says with a half-hearted shrug.

It could be. Neither of them is stupid. But maybe that's the problem. The two of them, Swan and Skov, know too much to be content sitting in a classroom.

Jiang wonders at the “we” and the "our", when Swan and Skov became the kind of people that make plans together. He wonders if it'll last.

Something's settled between them. Jiang doesn't know what it is or the cause, whether it's the near death experience or what, but there's a difference. They're more candid about their relationship. Before it was just a thing Jiang knew, something parsed together from a hundred little clues. Now it's out in the open, where anyone can see.

Jiang thinks it'll last.

"You won't miss this place?" he asks Swan.

Swan's indelicate snort is the funniest thing Jiang's heard in forever.

 

* * *

 

In June, Swan starts the roughest conversation Jiang's ever had.

"K didn't kill him," Swan says.

Jiang never thought he did.

Swan explains what he's pieced together, what Morris confirmed once Swan knew what to ask. In Jersey, there's a field of half-human bodies. Proko, the real one, is among them. Swan's not going to disinter all of them just to find him.

Suicide. It hangs heavy between them.

Jiang's never been the type but Swan...

"I'm seeing someone now," Swan says. "A therapist. I-" His breath catches. "I think it's something I have to do. It's once a week and there's a support group I can join, if I want." His hands clench in fists atop his jeans. He sucks a steadying breath in and blows it out. "I know it's not my place to say, but I think maybe you should start seeing a doctor again, Jiang. Take your medicine," he adds gently.

Jiang never stopped seeing doctors. He did stop taking his meds.

"I'll think about it," he says. 

For once, it isn't a lie.


	32. Chapter 32

“Come on,” Jiang says. Oyster shells crunch under his feet.

They’re in the woods, the place Jiang never wanted to go. They had to wait until summer to do this, eight years to the day.

Henry's with them and Skov. They don’t need to be but they are.

“It’s up ahead,” Swan says. He sounds out of it, his words slurring at the edges. He went a little overboard preparing for this. After hearing Swan’s version of events, Jiang doesn’t blame him, certainly not once he realized Swan was fourteen when he first experienced it.

There’s a red Mustang in the field, dusty and covered with leaves.

It’s not forgotten. There’s writing on the windshield, two different hands.

“Yuan gui,” Jiang breathes. He doesn’t know why he clings to the term so much. Yes, he does. He knows no English word for what Noah is.

“’Murdered’,” Henry reads from the windshield, sounding spooked even after everything. “‘Remembered’.”

“Noah Czerny,” Swan slurs. He’s leaning hard on Skov’s side. “Murdered by Barrington Whelk.” (“Our Whelk?” Henry asks and Jiang shoves him.) “They came here to look at the ley line and Czerny took a skateboard to the face.”

“Whelk with a skateboard in the woods,” Skov says, wrapping his arm around Swan’s waist to steady him. “Fucking hell.”

“You didn’t know?” Jiang asks.

Skov tsks. “It never came up.”

“Whatever happened to the skateboard?” Swan murmurs, taking a swig of the Popov he’s carrying. It’s an odd choice. There must be some significance.

“He was buried, wasn’t he?” Henry asks.

“Twice,” Skov says.

“And they caught his killer?” Jiang doesn’t know why he’s asking. He's read everything there is to read. Aglionby professor, former golden boy, wanted for the murder of his missing, confirmed dead ex-roommate. Then he ups and disappears. Only a handful of people know the truth.

“The woods did,” Swan says. “Whelk’s long dead.”

Henry doesn’t seem troubled by this. It’s possible Dick Gansey told him.

“Why did he want us to come here?” he asks. “Lynch, Gansey, and them remember him, don’t they?”

“They remember who he became,” Jiang says. Swan looks at him and he knows what he’s saying is right. Jiang’s heart hurts and not just for the yuan gui named Noah Czerny. “Not who he was.”

They torch the car.

Jiang has a feeling Lynch will know and come after them someday for that. Fuck it. They’ll be gone by then and Noah will have moved on, his memory assured. Lynch didn’t move the car when he had the chance. He let it stay here, a monument to a heinous act.

They use the last of K’s lighter fluid, the one he brought out of a dream, on the Mustang. There’s nothing left when the green flames burn themselves out.

Henry looks momentarily stunned. Jiang knocks their shoulders together. He grins when Henry looks at him. The things Henry missed being on the other side of Kavinsky. The things Jiang would have missed had he stayed at Henry's side.

Jiang doesn’t have regrets about Kavinsky. He was a glorious, fucking miracle and an absolute disaster. Jiang got a year and a half with him and they were amazing, magnificent, impossible. He’s gone now and Jiang will never be the same.

But he’ll endure. 

They all will.


End file.
